A Lesson in Learning
by of untold secrets
Summary: Detectives are apt to believe that they have seen, heard, and done everything. When L is thrown into the world of a shadowy nineteenth-century London, he quickly realizes how wrong he is...
1. Chapter 1

_Edit 09/25/11: Fixed up some typos here and there and (hopefully) smoothed out the transitions. _

_-laughs nervously- It's been a long time since I posted something up, hasn't it? __I've always wanted to try doing a crossover, though, and I've noticed there are far too few L and Sherlock Holmes interactions on this website. _

_Please forgive me for any horrible historical misconception and blaring mistakes. I'm no great studier of history, and most of what I know comes from the Sherlock Holmes stories themseleves._

_Hope this works out..._

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><p>In the spider-web of facts, many a truth is strangled. ~Paul Eldridge<p>

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><p>"I'm surprised—he has such a thick skull, I didn't think anything could knock him out."<p>

"Well, he _did_ hit his head rather hard on the table."

"Really? I thought it was the books that fell on him that did him in."

"_Sherlock Holmes_, was it? Hardcover, too. I'm surprised. I never thought he would be one into fiction like that."

"Huh. I just hope he didn't get hurt too badly. We still need him."

All eyes turned on Light, who flushed and defended himself hotly. "What? It's true!"

Matsuda snorted. "That's pretty rich coming from you, Light. It was you who knocked him out in the first place, wasn't it?"

"I said I was sorry!"

The older detective rolled his eyes. "It doesn't count unless you say it to his face."

Light scowled. "How was I supposed to know he wasn't going to catch himself falling down?"

Soichiro sighed. "You should have known better anyway, Light. What were you two fighting about this time?"

Light absently touched his swelling eye as he thought back. The fight had started easily with the usual narrowed eyes and waspish remarks and was almost casual in the ease and familiarity with which the detective and the suspect exchanged blows. Light still wasn't completely sure how he had gotten the better of L—it had been fine, a stress relieving exercise, at least until he dealt a final rapid succession of blows and L fell, head colliding with a sharp corner of a table with an earth-stopping _thunk_.

The books that had been piled carelessly on top teetered dangerously, and Light had to leap to save L from a horrible death by book stoning. He'd only managed to catch some of them, though. An impressive collection of Sherlock Holmes' stories ended up falling, sharp edge smacking the man's temple. Light had frozen, stunned at the sight of the detective collapsed on the floor, blood already beginning to stain the floor.

He glanced away from his father's sharp gaze. "Uh…I believe it was something about who got to use the bathroom first."

Soichiro shook his head sadly.

The investigation team was assembled awkwardly in L and Light's shared bedroom, quite at lost as to what to do now that their leader was unconscious and sprawled on the bed before them. Matsuda poked L's limp arm hesitantly and Mogi slapped his hand away. Light shifted from foot to foot, for once aching to start working.

Watari looked up from where he was putting away the first aid kit and smiled warmly. "You should start working. The most we can do is ensure L is comfortable and wait until he wakes up. I'll take care of him, don't worry."

Just like that, the tension broke and the investigation team trickled out of the room, almost eager to get away from the oppressive atmosphere.

"It wasn't your fault, you know." Soichiro said as they left. "Watari is right; don't worry so much."

"I'm not." Still, Light couldn't help but glance back at the prone figure stretched across the bed, a swathe of white contrasting oddly with the black spikes of hair. The handcuffs and chain lay on top of the night table, unlocked with the keys he'd taken from L's own pocket. Beside them lay the thick book that had fallen on him.

The entire thing was an odd sight, definitely.

"I just wonder what he's dreaming about," Light murmured to himself, rubbing at his wrist where the cuff had chaffed.

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><p><em>What L was dreaming about<em>, indeed.

For a long moment, his mind simply shut down, awestruck at the scene that unfolded before him, so different from what he was used to. For an entire minute, he could not do much more than gape and stare. _How…?_

The sounds hit him first; foreign noises of metal striking stone, of the clattering of horse hooves and the soft chatter of people. Then came the smells, wet and low, smoky and subtly pungent—a thousand scents he'd never scented before.

And the _sights_.

Cobble-stoned ground, gas lit streets, soft light illuminating horses and horse trams, hamson cabs and people. But people, mostly.

Everywhere, they moved with a certain alertness rarely seen. Both carefully private and almost embarrassingly open, their gestures were something that L, who has long prided himself on his familiarity with body language of all cultures, would have happily studied for days. Two men were striding down the street discussing politics in a formal, detached speech L had never seen in anyone else but himself. Directly across from him was a woman loudly sobbing into her son's shoulder.

L himself stood just inside the mouth of a grimy alley. Barefoot, he saw with some consternation. Never before had he wished so strongly for a pair of shoes, but today seemed to be full of surprises.

With a start, he realized he probably looked incredibly stupid, frozen at the edge of his street with an open mouth and bugged eyes, looking for all the world was if he had never seen a city before.

He _had_, just never one that looked for all the world like it just stepped out of a history book.

Or maybe it was _he_ who had stepped into one.

And the worst part? He couldn't remember how he got there. He could remember Kira, remember Light, remember the handcuff that he himself had snapped onto their wrists. He could remember the investigation, and getting into another fight with Light and…

Then it stopped. Not matter how much he concentrated, he couldn't remember what (if anything) happened after; it was as if there was a tall stone wall in his mind that refused to allow him through.

Sighing, he gave up and resigned himself to the exploration of this place. Stepping away from the alley, L pondered his situation as he walked down the street. He was either in the most incredible historical diorama in the world or it actually…

On an impulse, he brought his hand up to his lips and sank his teeth into it. He flinched, and quickly released it, rubbing at the crescent that was rapidly reddening on his skin. Probably not a dream, then.

He was suddenly shoved aside, into the path of a rather prim-looking businessman. He glanced back with a slight scowl on his face, to see quickly receding backs of two grubby boys. "Sorry, sir," the taller boy called and waved, then sped up to catch up with his companion.

The businessman quickly stepped away from L, an undisguised look of disgust on his face. "Foreigners," he snorted, then strode away.

L blinked, then had to move quickly to dodge a paper-boy, loudly proclaiming his wares for the entire street.

It had been a long time since a stranger looked upon him with such a look of repugnance, and even longer since he had thought himself as a foreigner of anything. But here, it was plain to see, he was a stranger in every way possible.

And then to make things worse, it began to rain.

It started out as a slight drizzle and progressed to pounding buckets of rain in what seemed like no time at all. Water soaked his clothing, turning the dirt and dust on the street into slime that clung to his feet. His hair was drenched so locks of it hung in front of his eyes and dripped down his neck. On the street, umbrellas appeared and people disappeared into the relative safety of their homes.

L just tried to keep his head bowed and hurried on his way—to where, he didn't know yet. Inside, probably. Maybe a church. People were free to enter places like those, right?

Suddenly, his eye caught sight of something white lying on the side of the street. From what survived the torrent of rain, L could make out parts of what seemed to be a newspaper article.

His eyes were drawn to the only name he recognized, and he almost dropped the paper in shock.

Surely it couldn't be…?

He looked down and read it over again. No, the name was still there, perhaps wetter than before.

_Sherlock Holmes_.

He peered closer in an effort to read the rest of the article, but could not make out more than a few sentences from the smudged ink. But it was enough to know that, in this world at least, the famous detective was just as real as he was in his, not just fiction.

A brief smirk flitted over L's features. Here was an opportunity he couldn't turn down.

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><p>It took some searching to find Baker Street, and by the time he had, L had a fairly good sense of the area. He'd lost track of the number of roads, side streets, and alleyways he's wandered through to find the place, as well as the number of people he'd asked for directions. Most wouldn't even look at him, but one kindly girl had pointed it out for him.<p>

He looked up, rechecked the address with the soggy paper still clutched in his hand, and ascended the steps and knocked on the door. He tossed the newspaper away.

L know he was probably acting with childishly blind enthusiasm, but he couldn't help it. Trapped apparently in the world of his favourite book? Why shouldn't he explore a bit before returning? Kira's case had been at a standstill for the past few weeks—and to tell you the truth, he wasn't very eager to return just yet.

He will have to soon, but for now…

The door swung open with a groan, and a middle-aged woman peered out, a hopeful face falling when she caught sight of him.

"May I see Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" L asked in his pleasantest voice. "I wish to meet with him."

She cast a dubious eye over him. "Are you one of the Irregulars? You speak too politely to be one of them, though." She sighed. "But I suppose it's fine. He'd been driving Dr. Watson and me quite crazy with his restlessness."

She welcomed him inside and introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. L quickly cleaned his feet as best he could and stepped inside.

"Please wait a moment," she said, then went upstairs, presumably to alert Holmes and Watson of the arrival of a guest.

Clatters, scrapes, and footsteps sounded from above, and L hid a smile of amusement. It continued even as Mrs. Hudson returned and told him that Holmes was ready to see him.

L nodded in thanks and climbed the steps—there were seventeen in all, he remembered. The stairs ended in a landing with only a single door and another staircase continuing its way upwards. Unhesitant, he knocked on the door.

"Come in," a muffled voice called from within. L did.

The room was in a state of casual disarray, though a hastily-stacked pile of papers and a suspiciously overflowing trash can seemed to suggest a recent attempt at cleaning up. A smoky smell permeated throughout. Two men stood in the largest empty space in the room—directly in front of the door.

"You are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson, I believe?"

Both groups were momentarily speechless at the sight of the other. Holmes recovered the fastest, managing to reply, "Yes. How may we help you?"

L blinked and straightened slightly. "I would like to know what date it is today."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "It is the twenty-fourth of September."

"And the year?"

"1895."

"Thank you."

A long period of silence, where Watson fidgeted uneasily, Holmes studied L, and L tried to think back on his history classes.

Holmes broke the silence. "Is that all?"

L thought. Was it all? "Yes, I suppose so."

"So there is nothing else you need?"

"No." Apart from a new set of clothing, shoes, shelter…sugar would be nice as well. "I guess I should be leaving now. Good bye." L turned to leave, but Holmes called after him.

"Wait. If it doesn't trouble you too much, I would like to have a talk with you. You intrigue me."

L stopped. "How so?"

Holmes rubbed his hands together. "Well, your manner of speaking and dress all mark you as a foreigner. Your eyes, hair, and stature mark you as an Oriental, but your pale skin and proficiency at English suggests someone of European nature, perhaps even British. Oh, please do take a seat."

"Not particular astute observations from someone of your reputed calibre." L replied, sitting down in his usual crouch while considering the two men who sat opposite to him.

"I don't believe you've given us your name," Watson spoke up, bristling at the thinly veiled insult.

"L. You can call me L."

"Elle?" Holmes asked. "Is that not usually a woman's name?"

"It's 'L'—just the letter."

"You are named after a letter?" Watson exclaimed, taken aback.

"It is a name I answer to."

"Then, pray tell, what _is_ your real name?"

L gave a small smile. It seemed as if the two were as inquisitive in this…whatever this place was, as in the stories. "It would not help anything even if I did tell you."

Holmes leaned forward with interest at the enigmatic answer. "Curiouser and curiouser! You truly are a strange boy—how old are you, by the way? If you don't mind me asking." He may have sensed L's small hesitation, and added, "Your age cannot betray so much that you are reluctant in the giving of it."

"Not at all. I was just wondering what age you perceive me to be." L grinned internally—this was the most interesting conversation he had in months.

"I am ashamed to say that I am not sure," Holmes professed. "No more than eighteen, I am sure."

"Twenty-three."

A look of surprise appeared on the detective's face. "Really?"

"Would I lie?"

Holmes shrugged. "How would I know? You refuse to tell who you are, or even to reveal your name, and yet you name both of us easily and seem familiar with my techniques. You are not from London though, I will say—possibly not even from this continent. You speak English smoothly and fluently, but bluntly in a way I have never heard before. Except perhaps from an American, but somehow I don't believe you are from there."

"True," L said wryly.

"You also don't care much for appearances and don't appear to have much wealth anyway, or you have fallen upon tragic times, for you are dressed worse than urchins I've seen in the street. Or perhaps you are just extremely forgetful."

"Holmes!" Watson admonished.

"It's alright. Hearing his observations really are very interesting, and I don't mind the things he concludes from me. Most of them are true, anyway."

"Only most?" Holmes did not sound disappointed at all. "What did I conclude incorrectly?"

"There is the possibility that I do not like the stiff collared shirt and suit, and despise the confines of socks and shoes, and that is why I dress like this."

"I am inclined to think not, as I doubt one would willingly walk through the sludge of London, especially on a rainy day. Without an umbrella."

"Well, it's true that I didn't have a choice with the shoes or the umbrella," L muttered, "But the rest of my outfit, as you say, was chosen for comfort, not appearance."

"How strange," Holmes murmured. He reached out and pinched the sleeve of L's white shirt, now grey and muddy with dirt. "I don't recall ever seeing that type of weave before. Where is it from?"

"A distant place," L said, jerking out of his grip. "Where I came from."

"And how did you get here?"

"I don't know." Truth.

"Really," Holmes mused. "This is most—"

Whatever it was most of, L and Watson never got to hear because the door suddenly burst open at that moment, startling the inhabitants within.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the plot. _

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><p>A young man ran into the room, panting, with wide eyes and a flushed face.<p>

"Are you—the consulting detective—Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" he huffed, wild green eyes darting through the sitting room, finally settling on the most authoritative figure.

"Yes." Holmes answered calmly as if this sort of thing happened on a regular basis (knowing him, it probably did). "Please, sit down. You look exhausted." In a rare fit of tact, L offered his seat to the man, who quickly collapsed into it without a word. Unperturbed, L leaned against the wall and watched the entire company with interested eyes.

The man had an open, honest face, now pinched with stress and worry. Of average height and skinny build, he didn't make for a particularly imposing figure. However, he conveyed a sense of undeniable energy and determination.

The man held up shaky hand. "Please—give me a moment—I seem to be—rather short of breath."

"Certainly. Take as long as you need to," Holmes answered, eyes eager with anticipation at the possibility of a new case. His eyes lit upon L, then darkened. He paused, "I'm terribly sorry, but could you wait outside the door? Client confidentiality, you know."

L nodded. "I understand." He quietly slipped out the room and crouched near the staircase railing, making himself comfortable. Holmes believed in client confidentiality, but L never trusted in such things. One could never know who may be listening just outside the sitting room, after all.

There were a couple of minutes of silence, as the man recovered his breath.

"I'm sorry for my…rather unorthodox entrance," he apologized. "I came here in rather a hurry."

"Understandable. How do you like your home in London so far, by the way? I hope it has been enjoyable." Holmes' voice.

"London is very fine. Especially…" the man trailed off. "How on earth?" he exclaimed, amazed.

"No Londoner who enjoys walks outside would get lost on the way from his store and Baker Street."

The man perked up. "So you know who I am?" he asked.

"No," Holmes admitted. "I know only that you are an assistant tailor from 'Stratting's clothing store', that you enjoy long walks, and that you've only recently arrived to London."

"How in the world would you know all that?"

"Firstly, your clothing is very neat and well-made, although it is evident you are not a particularly wealthy person. On both your sleeves, there is a worn section that suggests work at a table or desk for long periods of time, yet you do not have the ink stains of a writer or typewriter. You do have, though, specks of fabric dye on the front of your shirt; a most peculiar bright yellow that I believe is only found in one store in London. Thus, you are a tailor, but still an assistant, for a garment maker with more experience would never allow dye to stain his clothing.

"Also, your shoes are worn but well-kept—demonstrating not poverty but frequent use.

"Lastly, I have made it my little hobby to know the colour and consistency of the soil in each section in London. You would be surprised at the quantity and variety of the types. So it is no difficult matter to judge the route you've taken by the layering of mud on your boots—the sheer variety on your shoes suggest a number of wrong turns, especially since I know that the fastest route from Stratting's is comprised of no more than two streets."

L suppressed a gleeful smile. So the Holmes in this world was as arrogant and boastful as he had imagined—that was interesting to know.

The man, though probably took this compliment-fishing for supernatural ability. L could imagine the man's awestruck face.

"Explanations side," Holmes continued, "I assume you've come with a problem you would like me to answer?"

"Yes!" the man exclaimed.

"Then tell me everything, and make sure you don't leave the slightest detail out."

Eagerly (and a little nervously, L thought) the man introduced himself as Daniel Robbins, assistant tailor to Mr. Henry Wellington, his employer.

"I only just moved to London as you guessed, from a small city far north of here called Whitchurch. Knowing that I have had some economic hardship, and recognizing my talent with textiles and such, my uncle offered me a job at his friend's store. The friend, of course, was Mr. Wellington, who has kindly allowed my wife Jane and I to stay in one of the rooms above the shop. There, we have lived quite happily for the past two months. We try to be amiable, and we have no enemies that I know of.

"But, oh! Our happiness is not to be!" Robbins groaned.

Holmes murmured something indistinct and probably meant to be comforting. L shifted positions, having absolutely no patience with such things.

With another heavy groan, Robbins continued. "Last Thursday, my wife fell ill. Stricken with fever and symptoms of a most hateful malady, she has been steadily growing worse—I fear for her life!"

"Excuse me for saying, but wouldn't the Doctor here be far more useful then? I'm afraid I am quite useless in such a situation." L could hear the frown in his voice.

"Ah, but if this were an ordinary illness, I would not hesitate to ask the knowledge and experience of Dr. Watson. But it is not! This was done by a purposeful hand—I am sure of it!"

"How so?"

"Poison," Robbins declared. "That day, Jane drank a glass of water and I remember there being traces of a white powder at the bottom of the cup."

"Who was in the rooms at that time?"

He thought for a moment. "Apart from Jane and I, there was Mr. Wellington and his maid. But anybody could have snuck in and poisoned it."

"Do you still have the glass?" Holmes asked.

"No. I believe Jane had washed it."

Holmes made a sharp sound of disappointment. "Do you or your wife have any enemies, or reasons people may want to harm you?"

"No!" Robbins exclaimed immediately, then hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Well…Jane has a relative who is a rather wealthy man. He is not the most generous of people, though, and is a strong believer of making one's own fortune. Still, he is quite fond of her—who wouldn't, though?—has been deathly sick for some time."

"And Jane is expected to inherit a sizable portion of the wealth?"

"Yes. But if—heaven forbid!—something were to happen to her, all of it would pass onto the next in line."

There was a long pause. "One last thing," Holmes said finally. "What is the name of this relative of hers?"

"Robert Kalingt, I believe. Will you take the case?"

"Yes," Holmes replied. "I will like to help you and your wife as well as I can."

Watson finally spoke up. "Would you like me to check over her?"

"No, no. I would not dare to impose on you like that."

"It's no trouble at all! And if your wife is really so ill..."

"No. I already have an excellent doctor taking care of her. Thank you for your offer." A slight pause, and L assumed Robbins had turned to Holmes. "You have my deepest gratitude. I feel much relieved now that you are on the case. But I am sorry, as I need to be getting back to care for Jane. I don't like the idea of her sitting in her room all alone and in pain, with only the maid and the doctor for company."

"Of course. You will be the first to know if anything comes up."

"Thank you again." There was a period of silence, probably hand-shaking or bowing or saluting or whatever Londoners did in this day and age, and the door flew open and Robbins strode out, giving a curt nod as he went past.

"I hope she's okay…" he murmured to himself.

Watching the man disappear down the stairs, L contemplated what he would do next. Of course, he could probably stay at Baker Street for a little while longer, but he doubted he would be met with the same eagerness - however dubious - as before.

L poked his head into the sitting room where Holmes and Watson seemed to be sunk in deep thought. "I'll leave now," he said bluntly, making up his mind. "I have no reason to impose upon your hospitality anymore."

Watson shook himself out of his stupor. "You won't stay longer?"

"No. I must be going. Goodbye." L was about to withdraw, then paused. "Holmes?"

"Yes?" Holmes blinked.

"I wouldn't focus on Kalingt and his will so much if I were you." Then L slipped out.

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><p>Holmes cocked his head thoughtfully as the raven-haired young man disappeared, before moving to peer out of the window. Evening had given way to night, and soft golden light from the streetlights shimmered off puddles on the ground so that it seemed as if the streets were paved with gold.<p>

"So, what do you think?" Watson asked, having shifted to stand next to the detective.

"He's a most curious person. I can't make heads or tails of him," Holmes replied absently. He watched as L dodged two cabs and an overweight official before glancing around and shuffling down the street.

"I meant the case."

"Oh, sorry. The case is not particularly unique, but it does present some points of interest. And what consulting detective would I be if I didn't even try to put the poor husband's mind to rest?" Holmes reached out and touched the glass of the window. Watson waited from him to continue, but Holmes said nothing more.

Not disappointed in the least by the reticence, Watson returned to his armchair to give his friend time and space to think.

He almost missed the detective's quiet murmur. "I'd wager this won't be the last we'll see of him." Watson knew better than to think he was talking about Robbins.

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><p><em>I apologize for the suddeness of the events, both in this chapter and the next. But there will be a reason for everything - really!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes was a man of extremes. Half the time, he was an excited, sharp-minded, quick detective eager to leap instantly into whatever problem he was given. Half the time, he was a morose, languid, dark hold of a man, more of a piece of furniture than anything else.

And sometimes, very rarely (but more often since the Hiatus, and always after the completion of a case), Holmes was as he was now: bright, cheerful, talkative, companionable.

The two splashed their way through the streets—it had rained again last night—and the cold and wet were making Watson's old war wounds ache fiercely. However, to see his friend act so _happy_ more than made up for the small pain.

"The violins in the last movement—beautiful!" Holmes exclaimed, arm in arm with Watson. "And the cello harmonized perfectly. It is rare that you see such talent in one place, in one piece. It was just…" he drifted off, eyes closing and running over the piece over in his mind.

Watson chuckled. "Yes. I don't have much experience with music, but it was certainly nice."

"Nice? It was genius!"

"The fiddle in the second piece was absolutely horrible, though."

Holmes eyes snapped open. "Do not even mention that…_musician_." He grimaced. "His playing sounded like that Mr. Wellington's laugh. _Heee-hi-haw!_" he mocked, imitating the tailor quite passably.

Watson opened his mouth to reprimand Holmes' rudeness, but found he was laughing too hard to do so. "Well, at least we finally finished the case. You need not hear Mr. Wellington's laugh ever again."

Holmes smirked. "Yes. That is one interview I hope to never do again."

"You didn't _have_ to knock over that display case, though."

"Yes I did. If I hadn't, that man would never cease prattling about his dyes and threads and whatnot. You would think he was the only man in the world who knew a thing about tailoring. And he didn't tell us a single useful thing."

"But you managed to complete the case anyway."

"It was remarkably easy, actually. Disappointingly so. That Mrs. Robbins simply ingested some red dye and has thus fallen ill was something even _Lestrade_ could realize. To do so is uncomfortable, but not life-threatening—you saw yourself how mild her symptoms were. Mr. Robbins is good-hearted, but far too paranoid."

Watson nodded as they turned into another street. "Better that than the other way around, tho—gah!"

His arm flew out to steady the tall urchin he had bumped into. "Are you alright?"

"Quite alright, Doctor." The figure straightened and turned to face him, and Watson realized that the urchin was not actually an urchin but—

"L?"

L gave a small sarcastic bow. "At your service."

"What are you doing here?"

"Walking. Like you are. How has your investigation been going?" he asked.

"Very well. In fact, we completed it just today."

"That's good. It wasn't a purposeful poisoning, was it?"

Watson started. "How did you know?"

"It was obvious. There was no motive, and it was too messily done for it to be a murder, anyway," L shrugged, the slightest hints of a smirk appearing on his face.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "You seem very sure."

"Of course I am. If I wasn't confident in my own abilities, who else could I trust?"

"Oh, I don't know—a friend, maybe?" Watson didn't even know why he was having this conversation. Whenever they spoke with this strange man L, it seemed that ordinary etiquette and rules went out the window.

"I don't need friends." An unreadable emotion flashed behind his eyes, but his voice was firm, sure.

A muscle jumped in Watson's jaw. Don't need friends? What was this man talking about? Everybody had a friend, didn't they? Friends were a necessary part of life—friends like Holmes and Mrs. Hudson kept him afloat.

"And I suppose you don't need shoes, either?" Watson said, cuttingly. "Or an extra set of clothes?"

"I had no choice in that matter." Was his only answer.

Wait…what? He had meant that to be some kind of snappish remark; not something that required an answer. But now that he thought about it—really thought about it—certain aspects of the strange man began to fit together.

Holmes seemed to arrive at the realization as well. "Do you not have a home?"

"Excellent deduction," L said derisively. He sneezed. "No."

"Any possessions? Money?"

"No."

"_Anything_?"

"I have these clothes."

Watson frowned. "You seem smart enough. A bit strange, but okay. Finding a job for yourself shouldn't be difficult."

A short bark of sardonic laughter was his answer.

Watson pursed his lips. He liked to think himself as a good, generous person. Knowing that an acquaintance had been living on a street, doing nothing at all seemed to be almost criminal. Then again, inviting a person he had just met to live at Baker Street was just plain foolhardiness.

He glanced at Holmes and saw that the detective was grappling with the same problem.

Watson turned back to the ragged young man. "Well, I could help you…" _…Get lodgings, new clothing, and possibly a job—it's the least I can do_.

That was what he wanted to say. He didn't have the chance to, and by the time he recovered coherent thought, it was too late to say anything.

"_It's you. You're the killer_."

Silhouetted against the golden glow of a gaslight, a dark figure reared up behind L. The unmistakeable glint of silver was clutched between two shaking hands, and all Watson could do was stare as it was brought down.

At the last minute, L—perhaps seeing something in Watson's eyes—whirled around, dropping his hands to the ground to deliver a harsh kick to the assailant. The knife missed, instead grazing deeply into his upper back.

The figure—a burly man, as far as Watson could see—was not so lucky. He stumbled backwards, almost directly into the waiting arms of Sherlock Holmes.

Realizing he was captured, the man screamed and twisted in Holmes' grip. One flailing arm brought the knife a hairsbreadth from his eye, and the detective ducked out of the way, his hold weakening as he did so.

"He's the killer!" the man screeched again, dropping the bloody knife and scrambling away, lightning-fast.

With a muttered curse, Holmes ran after him, leaving Watson with one filthy injured man and an attempted murder weapon.

He watched as L bent down to pick up the knife. It was a narrow, muddied thing, looking more like a throwing knife than anything else. L turned it over in his hand, as if by scrutinizing the weapon he could delve into the mind of the man who had wielded it.

Briefly, he wondered why the man had attacked L. _It's you. You're the killer_. That's what the man had said, wasn't it?

Was L a murderer?

He quickly shook off the thought. That question could wait for later—right now, he had an injured acquaintance that needed medical attention, possible murderer or not.

L seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, so much that he hadn't noticed that the red stain on his shirt was growing at an alarming rate, or even that Watson had approached him. Watson pulled off his thin jacket and pressed it against L's back.

The young man hissed through his teeth and flinched away, possibly the first normal human reaction Watson had seen from him.

"Here," Watson said, pushing the jacket into L's hand. "Press this against the wound as best you can. I don't want you bleeding to death."

"Is he alright?"

Watson and L jumped as Holmes appeared, walking silently up behind them. His clothing was soaked and his face was sour in disappointment. "Hey—what's this?" He plucked the knife out of L's hand and tsked. "Watch out for infection. This thing is filthy."

Watson bit his tongue and resisted the temptation to snap that, _yes_ he knew that—he was a doctor, blast it! But he had long since discovered that waspish remarks were Holmes' reaction to failure. "I take it that the man escaped?"

"Yes," Holmes growled. "But not before taking me through the wettest parts of the city first. I got a good look at his face, though."

Watson nodded. His gaze flickered to L, who was standing silent, just listening to the entire exchange. If it weren't for the somewhat crooked way he was standing, and the blood soaking into the back of his shirt, one wouldn't even know he was injured. Watson liked to think that he was a good judge of character, but he did not even have an inkling as to what the raven-haired man was thinking.

_It's you. You're the killer_.

Was he?

* * *

><p><em>Anyone else notice that the chapters are getting shorter and shorter? . Hopefully, the next one will be longer (and slower)...<em>_And, again, I apologize if it seems as if I'm just hurling plot thingys at you. As I said before, there will eventually be a reason for all of this! (hopefully)_

_Feedback will be appreciated_


	4. Chapter 4

It was official: L was the strangest person Watson had ever met. And you had to admit, he'd met some very strange people in his years, his eccentric detective friend being one of them.

It started with dressing the wound. The man made no sound as Watson washed the gash, perhaps rubbing a little harsher than he would normally in an effort to garner _some_ reaction (he didn't succeed). Cleaned of dirt and under decent light, the injury looked a lot neater than before, though the rest of L didn't fare so well. By lamplight Watson was struck at how thin and filthy the man was.

The wound itself was not dangerously deep, but it was long—almost as long as his forearm—and snaked down his back like some sort of red river. Watson thought he saw it glow an angry red, but it could have just been the light. It by itself would not pose much of a danger to L's health, but coupled with his almost-emaciated state and the germs he had been exposed to, Watson was seriously worried about infection.

The knife itself lay on the table in all its stained glory. Watson noticed L glancing at it every once in a while, and made an effort to hide how uneasy this made him.

After practically dousing the wound in iodine, he quickly stitched it up and sent L to go wash himself off. As L followed his directions, Watson went in search of un-ripped and un-muddy clothes for his new guest.

He took one look at his wardrobe and thought of L's slight body and somewhat narrow shoulders and shook his head. Holmes was a lot thinner than Watson, and his old clothing would probably have to do.

Holmes himself had disappeared somewhere in between washing and stitching the wound, and Watson decided to go ahead and rummage around among his old outfits anyway. He would apologize later; what was important now was that he could find a new set of clothing.

Watson spent a brief second to wonder what kind of man could ruin his clothing to L's degree in the space of a single day. What was left wasn't even something he would cut up for rags to stuff into drafty door cracks.

After some searching, he ended up with a pair of worn grey slacks and a dress shirt that Holmes had bought five years ago and only discovered upon returning home that it was a size or two too tight.

Watson smiled, remembering. After returning from one of his night time expeditions with yet another ripped and muddied shirt, Mrs. Hudson had finally put her foot down and refused to continue mending and cleaning his clothing. He believed her exact words when Holmes nervously offered her the sad lump of fabric, were, "Do I look like a washing lady to you?" and shoved the detective towards the washing board.

That was when Holmes decided to go out and buy a new shirt. Which turned out to be too small for him. Which annoyed him to no end.

After putting up with Holmes wearing the same shirt for almost a week, Mrs. Hudson finally managed to corner him and taught him how to mend and wash his own clothing. Well, perhaps 'taught' was the wrong term—it implied that it was voluntary, which was definitely not the case.

Unsurprisingly, Holmes hated learning anything of the like with a passion. Still, necessity and fear of Mrs. Hudson required him to learn, which he did—albeit reluctantly. He ended up being quite proficient at the needle and thread; his keen eye for detail serving him well in this respect.

But what was funny was Holmes' sour face as Mrs. Hudson patiently showed him how to scrub and rinse clothing properly. He made quite a pathetic sight, soaked from the waist up to his elbows in suds, cursing as his hands slipped time and time again.

Up to that point, Watson had harboured the secret belief that Holmes was superhuman; that he could do anything and everything perfectly. So, watching as the detective made a fool of himself trying to wash clothing, Watson couldn't help but laugh. Even mechanically cold-hearted Holmes was human at heart.

…

Who _didn't_ seem human, on the other hand…

Watson grabbed a waistcoat, a pair of clean socks, and some unworn undergarments at random, all the while pondering the new guest.

L wasn't like any person he'd seen before. Cold-hearted to the point of unpredictability and stranger than anyone had a right to be, Watson supposed that he wasn't precisely _emotionless_, but it was as if he couldn't or wouldn't show emotion. Or when he did, it looked awkward or…restrained somehow, like his face wasn't used to contorting in such ways and rebelled against the very thought of it.

Was he capable of murder, like that man claimed he was? To be truthful, it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine him as one. However, if Holmes' line of work showed him anything, it was that jumping to conclusions was a dangerous as not doing anything.

He'll wait and see. But if the raven-haired man even _thought_ of harming his friends, there wouldn't be enough of him left to fill a matchbox.

Watson threw the clothing in front of the washroom door. "Don't put the shirt on yet!" he called, "I need to bandage your back first." He took the answering silence as 'yes', and went to retrieve his medicine bag from the table.

It wasn't long before L stepped out of the washroom, drying his hair with a towel. Watson worked quickly, wrapping up the cut on his back.

The first thing he noticed was that L was incredibly pale. What he had taken to be a _healthy_ shade of skin had turned out to be accumulated dirt and dust and had been washed away in the man's much-needed bath.

The pallid skin tone coupled with an abnormal skinniness gave off an impression of either weakness or otherworldliness—it was hard to know which.

But the angular, delicate bone structure was more reminiscent of a woman. Briefly, Watson wondered if L's gender was actually…but no. He'd seen him, had felt the hidden strength in his grip. L was most definitely a man.

Perhaps he was actually a vampire, like that Count Dracula Watson had read of a few weeks ago.

Watson shook his head of such thoughts. L was a man—a human. Nothing more, nothing less. What was he doing, imagining _what_ the man was when he should be concentrating on the _who_. It did not escape his notice that while L seemed quite knowledgeable about Holmes and the biographer, but they knew next to nothing about him. It bothered him quite a bit, actually.

Finishing the bandage with a quick, practiced knot, Watson ordered the man to put on the shirt. Silently, L did so.

"If you start feeling sick or if the wound is swollen, come right to me," he said. No answer, again.

But perhaps that was a good thing. The clock on the mantle ticked away the time and Watson began to feel comfortable, floating though the quiet. Heavens knows there was never enough of _that_ when Holmes was around.

"Do you have any candy?"

"…What?" Watson turned from where he was returning everything to his medicine bag, surprised in the break of silence.

"Candy," L sighed, exasperated. "A sweet confection made from sugar or syrup and often flavoured with fruit, nuts, or chocolate?" A pause. "I'll settle for just the sugar, if you have any."

"Oh!" Watson's mind caught up with his ears and he reached for a tin of sweets—leftovers from last Christmas—and handed it to the man. "Right—sugar _is_ good for shock."

L made something that might have been an assent and pulled a gold-wrapped toffee from the tin, unwrapping the foil with ease and popping it in his mouth.

"You like candy, don't you?" Watson observed.

"Mmm," L hummed in agreement, and began counting on his fingers. "Candy, cake, ice cream, sweetened tea…"

Watson chuckled as he settled himself in an armchair. "Like my father—he always had a sweet tooth."

L nodded absently. He pointed at a discarded newspaper on the table. "Are you reading that?"

"No." Watson frowned slightly, a little annoyed at having his words ignored in favour of a newspaper. Sure, Holmes did it all the time, but Holmes was Holmes. There was no other person quite like him in the world. Or…at least, he hoped not. He didn't think he could handle more than one. "Say, L, How's your family like?"

L was scanning the paper, holding it between his thumbs and forefingers in what had to be an uncomfortable position. "Don't know," came the curt answer. "I never knew them."

This was a surprise…or maybe it wasn't. Being an orphan definitely explained some of the man's quirks. Watson shifted awkwardly, not quite knowing how to react.

L didn't seem to be perturbed by the biographer's discomfort. He thumbed through the pages quickly, eyes darting from one thing to another in an information-gathering frenzy. Watson tried to sink himself in journal-writing, with little success. His pen stuttered at '_killer_' and he wondered if perhaps Holmes right about his over-dramatizing of their exploits. It was affecting him.

The mantle clock seemed ominously loud, now. Who knew what the maybe-murderer was thinking, hidden behind the shield of paper? Watson was drowning in silence, now realizing why he preferred Holmes' company, loud as it was.

So when he heard the knock on the door, he quite literally leapt up and rushed to open the door, eager for anything to dispel the oppressive atmosphere. Holmes strode in, success written all over his face, along with something else. Watson peered closer and thought he saw a hint of disquiet buried beneath the relieved triumph.

"Sorry, Watson," Holmes apologized, shedding his coat and throwing it on the hook. "I forgot my keys."

"It's alright. Well? What did you find?" Watson cleared books and papers off the third chair so Holmes could sit in it.

Holmes chuckled at his eagerness. "All in good time, Watson! Could I trouble you to pass me my pipe?"

Watson all but threw the pipe and tobacco at his friend.

"I just want this strange affair finished as quickly as possible. It was unsettling, knowing that somewhere in London there is someone accusing our guest of killing someone," he hurried to explain to Holmes' amused and incredulous expression.

They turned as one to glance at the 'guest', who had long since put down the paper. L sat crouched, looking with interest at the exchange.

"Well, I imagine there won't be long before this _is_ finished." Holmes filled his pipe and lit it.

"You have caught the attacker?"

"Practically. Tell me, what is the first place you'd go to after suspecting someone of murder? The police, of course! It is only when your claims have been turned down that you go out and search for the killer yourself—and only the very desperate do that. I have been talking to those fools at the Yard and, evidently, there has been a man who has gone to them screaming about murder. They turned him away because of the lack of evidence, the idiots—there is _always_ evidence, as long as you look."

"Do you have the name?" Watson asked.

"Of course," Holmes took a long puff on his pipe. "Mr. Daniel Robbins is the name of our man."

* * *

><p><em>Not the smoothest-flowing chapter, I'm afraid.<em>

_This chapter was a bit slow in coming, and I'm **still** not entirely satisfied with it. -sigh- Hopefully, the next part will be up with less of a delay, since I have some of it finished already (it was originally supposed to be part of this chapter but didn't look like it was going to be finished soon, so I just uploaded this first)._

_Feedback will be appreciated!_


	5. Chapter 5

L was not an impatient person.

He was quite content to spend days reviewing security tapes. He would happily sort through hundreds of employee files if he thought he should. He could while away weeks observing a single prisoner. He would do almost anything and spend as much time as needed to solve a problem—as long as there was progress. As long as he was doing something. Not many people knew, but he took pride in his work ethic.

But even L had to admit his pride had taken a formidable beating the last couple of days. First, waking up in a strange world with absolutely no knowledge as to how he got there (he was a detective, for goodness sakes—the best detective in the world!—he had a responsibility to his title to know things).

Next, his childish conduct upon arriving in this world. Frankly, it had been embarrassing. _He_ had been embarrassing. He wouldn't deny that he was childish, but this was ridiculous. He had acted as if he were in an amusement park, playing around when he should have been putting all his energies into finding a way back.

Who knows what Kira had been doing in his absence? Or Light? Kira probably did not yet notice his lack of presence and L trusted the investigation team to continue working, but what if a vital clue came in and he was not there to receive it? What if the team did not recognize the importance of the clue and loses it? What if Light really was Kira and has taken over the investigation and is misleading the team while he was trapped, helpless, in this place?

Although to be truthful, he _had_ tried to find a way to return. And failed. After leaving Baker Street the previous night, he had devoted several hours' worth of brainstorming and came up with many possible reasons why he was here and how he was to get back. He discarded each idea

The problem was that there were too few facts. He was a detective; he took useless information and made it useful. If there was no information to take, he was, well, useless. It wasn't even searching for a needle in a haystack—it was searching for a piece of _hay_ in a haystack.

L was reduced to waiting for something to come up. The inaction was driving him crazy.

Not that there was something wrong with this London. It was actually a very nice place, all things considered, though it did give rise to several disturbing thoughts.

(Holmes and his world was supposed to be fiction—the result of Doyle's imagination. If he was here, did it mean that it was actually a real place? Or did it mean that _L_ was a character of someone's imagination who happened to fall into the wrong world? Or perhaps this whole thing was just a dream, and he would wake up any moment to the plain off-white ceiling of his bedroom with Light chained to his wrist and everything as it should be.)

This London was nice enough, for now. Sure, there was far more petty crime than in his world, but L had never considered thieving and a few murders here or there to be particularly dangerous. The criminals who were truly deadly were the ones with enough hatred and greed to destroy other people, along with the ambition to recruit other similar-thinking people and the cunning to succeed in what they do. The ones knowing exactly what they wanted and how to get it without getting caught.

Of course, crime fighting had not developed enough to justify a rise in criminal ingenuity, anyway. A quick scan through the newspaper more than proved that.

L could see why Holmes was so popular. Watson's stories aside, most of the Londoners were either too trusting, or too ignorant, or too paranoid, or too stupid to notice a dirty urchin slipping a wallet out of a pocket, or a thief sneaking through their house, or bloody fingerprints on a hefty rock next to the corpse. All one had to do was know what to look for, be able to connect dots together, and think with an open mind; that was all. Still, he had to allow a certain amount of respect to Holmes for being the first of his analytical kind (fictional or not).

Speaking of criminals and crime-fighting…

L's mind drifted to the events that evening. He scowled and resisted the urge to kick himself.

How in the world did he allow a man to sneak up behind him with a knife, land a blow on him, and escape _without him observing any distinguishing features_? The man had pulled his shirt front over his nose, so he couldn't memorise the face, but how could he have missed the height, or left handedness, or build, or a limp, or a skin discolouration? All he saw was the knife and hysterical green eyes. L was tempted to say it was the adrenalin that made him act without looking first—adrenalin, hunger and exhaustion—but that was just an excuse. How could he capture Kira if he couldn't even remember a man who attacked him?

An unforgivable mistake. That was all it was.

And what made a man sneak up behind a complete stranger with an intention to kill? _It's you. You're the killer_.

Not that it bothered L, though. People been questioning his motives ever since he appeared on the political stage. Blackmailer, manipulator, thief, murderer—he had been called those before, and worse.

The man's claims bothered Holmes though, who went out presumably to find and question L's attacker himself, without L's influence to mess with anything.

It bothered Watson, who had been stealing strange glances at him ever since the man had called him a killer.

Was it a bad thing that it didn't bother him in the slightest? Possibly. Was it wrong that his hosts were walking on eggshells around him and he didn't care—couldn't even find it in himself to extend a companionable hand to them? Probably.

But he was L and L did not care—L was simply a heartless machine that solved whatever problem was presented to him, and right now, the dilemma was not the issue of his attacker's accusations, but the problem of his getting back home.

Not for a moment did he entertain the idea that there may not be a way back. There _was_—there had to be. For every route forward, there was a way back. One just had to find it to return home.

(But then again, a heartless machine didn't need a home, did he?)

* * *

><p>Mr. Daniel Robbins is the name of our man."<p>

Holmes watched as his words wrecked havoc with his biographer's emotions.

The detective took a long puff and began talking. "Once I got the name, I immediately went over to Stratting's. I had some questions to ask him, you see, and I wasn't sure if he would still be there tomorrow. It seemed wise to exercise some prudence.

"I hadn't actually expected him to be home, so it came as a pleasant surprise that he was. It took some convincing, but eventually the maid led me up to his rooms.

"Robbins was…shocked to see me." Holmes chuckled darkly. "Actually, _terrified_ is probably a better term. He fell out of his chair and nearly fell out of the window before I caught him and pulled him back into the room.

"He stood utterly still by the wall, his expressions similar to that of a mouse in the clutches of a cat."

"You should be an author," Watson murmured, almost absentmindedly. He was busy scribbling notes down.

"Me? No, no. I shall leave _that_ particular job to you, dear Watson. Now, where was I? Oh, yes—Robbins was leaning against the wall and I was leaning in and asking him what was his basis for his accusations of murder.

"'That…_man_ you were with killed my wife,' he hissed. 'What kind of detective are you that you cannot even feel the air he gives off?'

"I admit freely, I was in shock at the news that his wife had passed away—after all, the last time we had seen her, she was recovering; perfectly healthy, wouldn't you say, Watson? Finally, though, my brain caught up with my ears and I asked, '"The 'air' he gives off?" You mean smell?'

"'He shook his head violently. 'No! "Air"...ah…how do you say it…aura? Feeling? _His _is dark and slippery-feeling and sharp and unnatural. Empty. Like the air of the man I saw slipping his poison into dear Jane's glass of water—' He froze, as if afraid he'd given out too much information.

"'When was this?' I demanded, a little roughly, I'm afraid.

"He shook his head and refused to talk. I tried pressing him, but he would not move. Finally, I gave up and was about to leave to inspect Mrs. Robbins' room—her bed would probably be more helpful to me—when he finally spoke up. 'You are a detective, aren't you? Who do you not arrest that man? He was slinking like a dog outside your sitting room as I left…who knows what he's planning? Kill him before it is too late!'

"I did not take too kindly to that, as you may guess." Holmes shifted in his seat, and took another puff from his pipe. "So I told him in no uncertain terms that his so-called 'murderer's' name was L and that I was certain he did not kill anyone, intentional or otherwise. And that there was not going to be more killing if I can help it, for justice or otherwise."

Holmes was watching L's eyes widen with each word, but flinch minutely when he uttered 'justice'. He wondered why but did not ask.

"A little silence fell after my little monologue. I was once again turning to leave when Robbins suddenly exclaimed, 'This morning. I saw the man leaning over her this morning, just as I was about to start working.' I waited for more to come, but he was not obliging, so I left for Mrs. Robbins' room."

"Did you find anything?" Watson asked, peering at Holmes at little too closely for his comfort. Why? What was there to see?

Holmes scowled. "Nothing new. I suppose the first dose of poison or whatever it was, was incorrect, and the man had to return with another dose to ensure she was killed. It was something that struck reasonably fast and affected the respiratory system, judging by the symptoms the maid told me. Unless all of this was all Robbins' grief-stricken fabrication and we're just chasing after wild geese."

"He does seem a little…delusional," Watson admitted. "I mean, all that talk that about 'air'? But I'm sorry for his loss. His love for his wife…"

Holmes winced inwardly, knowing what Watson had suffered during his Hiatus. He still didn't know if that time was his worst mistake or his best success but if it had brought this much sorrow to his friend it had not been worth it.

"Not delusional," L cut in suddenly. "Crazed, maybe…but not delusional."

The other two men glanced at him, and started. "By Jove," Watson exclaimed. "_What_ are you doing?"

"What?" L glanced down at the table at the mess of sitting-room-table paraphernalia he had been absentmindedly playing with. The precariously balanced pieces amounted to a sizable tower. "Oh." He did not move to deconstruct it. "Anyway, I don't think Robbins is capable of fabricating something like this."

"You seem very opinionated," Holmes remarked, deciding not to comment on his guest's…habits. He himself had more than enough oddities, after all. "Very calm, too, considering you've just been attacked and accused a murderer not five hours ago."

L shrugged. "What did you do after leaving Stratting's?" he asked, unsubtly changing the subject.

"Nothing. Mr. Robbins deserves peace, at least. I couldn't do anything to help him." Holmes rolled the pipe between his fingers. "I…returned immediately after."

L narrowed his eyes, sensing the detective was hiding something. He left the matter alone, though, and continued. "Did Robbins say anything else about the…intruder?"

"No. I do believe he was a bit more occupied at what the intruder was holding," Holmes answered wryly. "Why?"

Ignoring him, L gazed upwards, pondering thoughtfully. "So we have a deceased wife who may or may not have been killed. For our purposes, let's assume her death was purposeful."

"'Let's'?" Watson raised an eyebrow.

"Let's also presume that the husband is telling the truth. According to the husband, the murderer is a man who slipped into the house in the morning. Most likely, as Holmes said, the first dose was ineffective and the killer had to return to give her a second. Whoever it is, he is very determined to have her dead."

"What I don't understand," Watson muttered, "is why the man poisoned her again the second time around. He was in the same bedroom as her—would it not be much easier to simply slit her throat?"

L nodded. "So this man is determined, but has limits on what he is willing or able to do. He can sneak into a room unnoticed, and looks somewhat like…me, I suppose.

"Then probably of average height, possibly with dark hair and pale skin." Holmes twirled the pipe between his fingers.

"And skinny," Watson interjected.

L felt a sliver of unease creep through him. Déjà vu…but…it couldn't be _him_. _He_ s locked up in a penitentiary in Los Angeles—locked up, or dead by Kira's hand. He would not be in early twentieth-century London.

But…L was here. Who was he to say that _he_ wouldn't? "So the most important questions would be—"

"—'Who is this man who may or may not be a killer?'" Holmes interrupted, eyebrow raised. Despite his sarcastic words, he was leaning forwards with interest. It took a brave man to take charge of an investigation. A brave man or a confident one, and he was curious as to how far L would take it.

"Yes, that." L flashed him a smirk. "As well as _why_ would a man kill the wife of a middleclass tailor, and—most importantly—_will_ he kill again."

"You think he will?" Watson asked.

"There's no reason for him not to." Holmes brought the pipe to his lips. "In any case, there is little more to be accomplished in continuing the investigation tonight, and even less in sitting around worrying what will happen next."

"Mmm," L hummed in agreement as he stood up.

"Where are you going?"

"The washroom. It's in the hallway, right?" L shuffled out the door without waiting for an answer.

Holmes and Watson stared at the door as it closed behind him. "Well, that was somewhat anticlimactic," the detective remarked.

"Not only the strangest, but the _rudest_ man ever to walk the earth," Watson muttered under his breath.

"What was that?"

Watson shook his head. "Nothing."

"My goodness—is my dear Boswell keeping _secrets_ from me now?" Holmes' eyes twinkled in much-needed humour.

Watson raised his eyebrows. "I'm not the only one hiding things though, am I?"

The detective's smile flattened. "What?"

"I'm not dull, Holmes. It does not take three and a half hours to question one man."

"I went over to the Scotland Yard too, don't forget that. And I could have walked."

"You don't smell bad enough of rotten fish and oil and sea spray for that; Stratting's is near the ports, as you very much know. And you would be much muddier if that were the case. And not even _you_ would walk all the way to the Yard, to Stratting's, then back—_at night_."

Holmes chuckled ruefully. "You have learned well, Watson. You should become a detective." At Watson's disapproving gaze, he looked away. "Well, I might have…delayed my return here."

"Did Mrs. Robbins' death affect you so much?" Watson's tone was gentle, almost disgustingly so. Holmes reined in the urge to snap at him, knowing his friend was doing the best he could.

Even if he didn't want him to.

Holmes bit down on his pipe, hard, needing to release the tension somehow. "She shouldn't have died," he muttered around the wood. "It was a mistake."

"You couldn't have known." There it was again—that sincere sympathy only Watson could express with any believability.

Holmes grunted and took a long drag from the pipe, as if the smoke could wash away the conversation. He should have known—he should have been able to prevent her death. She should not have died, and he should not have to waste time strolling up and down Baker Street trying to get his guilt under control as Watson worried and waited for him to return.

Still, it was important that Robbins was questioned as soon as possible. What he'd learned that night only reinforced that conviction—the man was in danger, and not just from the killer. Holmes wasn't sure to what lengths the tailor would go to avenge his beloved wife, but logic has definitely taken a back seat to his thinking. It was tragic, really.

Internally, Holmes grimaced. Since when could a death of a single woman affect him so much? There used to be days when he could see three cases like this in a single day and not even bat an eye. He must be growing soft. And, peering at his biographer out of the corner of his eye, he knew exactly what—or rather, _who_—prompted this change.

And he couldn't find it in himself to regret it.

* * *

><p><em>-smiles sheepishly- Did I say this part was going to get posted up with less delay? Whoops...my bad (but here's a long chapter to make up for it :D)<em>

_And, if anyone noticed, I got rid of the chapter titles. They just weren't working out, and I apologize if this inconveniences any of you. I also apologize for the boring content so far...there will be more action in the next chapter!_

_Feedback is apreciated! _


	6. Chapter 6

_NOTE: I you have no idea who B a.k.a. BB a.k.a. Beyond Birthday is, you might like to take this time to find out who he is, as this chapter makes a lot of references to him (just google his full name). He is technically a canon character who appears not from the manga or anime but in a short novel called _Another Note. _You might like to read it - I personally haven't, but I hear it's pretty good. However, I do find B's character interesting..._

_I apologize beforehand for the choppiness of this chapter. I've been chipping at it for weeks now, but still isn't completely satisfied with it. Oh well._

* * *

><p>"You don't like him."<p>

Not a question but a statement of fact.

A pause. "No, I don't."

"Why?"

Watson shifted in his seat. "He is secretive, rude and unrefined. And he has no respect for anyone but himself." Their conversation had moved onto other topics, even if they never quite managed to shake off its initial seriousness.

"That has never stopped you before." The corner of Holmes' mouth twitched. "In fact, I seem to remember another such person you met, oh, some fourteen years ago. You do recall him, do you?"

Watson grinned ruefully. "Of course." His first encounter with the excited and eccentric detective was one he was not likely to ever to forget. Watson thought of his first meeting with L, and his grin faded. "Can we trust him?" The answer came to him as the words left his mouth—no. No, they could not trust him. How could they, when the dark-haired man wouldn't even trust _them_ with the most basic information?

"Admittedly, we aren't particularly forthcoming ourselves, are we?"

Watson started. Holmes seemed to have read his mind. "No, we aren't," he allowed. "But L hardly seems to need us to tell him things."

"Mmm. Perhaps he read some of your stories?"

"Perhaps." Watson paused, thinking. "What's more important, I think, is the question of where he's going to stay for the night."

Holmes smirked. "So you're not going to throw him out on his ear?" he asked, only half joking.

"No!" Watson exclaimed. "…I mean, he's injured. And he's a suspect in a murder…we can't just release him like that…"

"The correct procedure would be to turn him over to the police for questioning," Holmes said dryly. "Thought they are notoriously rough with foreigners, especially strange ones who don't look like they belong anywhere. They'll probably get the information out of him eventually." He paused, hiding his amusement at Watson's anxious expression. "…Still, I don't think they're competent enough to handle this properly. I suggest we keep L for now—at least until we get more information."

He watched as some of the tension in Watson's shoulders eased off. "He could stay in my room—there are too many..._sensitive_ documents in your room and in here."

Holmes glanced around the room. "True. I should get around to putting them away. Say, L really is taking his time in the bathroom, isn't he…" he trailed off, sitting up straight. "He _didn't_."

Watson frowned. "He didn't what?"

Holmes was already making his way to the door. "There's no sound."

"What?" Watson frowned, wondering what point Holmes was trying to make.

He followed him into the hallway, and saw what Holmes had already figured out. The bathroom door hung open and there was no black-haired man in sight. "He…" A thought struck Watson. "He went after Robbins?"

Holmes didn't answer; only stared into the empty bathroom with a calculating expression on his face. Finally, he spoke. "Get your coat and revolver, Watson—we're going out."

"To bring him back?"

"No. To follow him."

* * *

><p>L pulled up the collar and huddled into the scant comfort it brought as he shuffled down the street. The night chill was biting into his skin and for some reason, he felt naked without his thicker white shirt and worn jeans. Exposed.<p>

London may not have much in the way of truly powerful crime lords, but she definitely had more than her fair share of thugs and drunkards and pickpockets. And skinny, delicate-looking foreign boys were easy prey.

Of course, L knew he was a boy, not a man, and that he was _anything_ but easy prey, but the vengeful and desperate were willing to prey upon _anyone_ foolish enough to wander the streets of London at night.

Was he foolish to try attempt this? Perhaps. It was a long shot, after all. However, L knew this was his only chance to prove or disprove his theory. After all, if the killer was who L thought he was, then he would undoubtedly be there to gloat over his successes; to revel a job well done.

L fidgeted with the neckline of the button-down shirt as he thought—the clothing Watson gave him restricted his movements in odd ways. Which gave rise to the bizarre questiong: how did Holmes and Watson manage to chase criminals wearing such uncomfortable clothes?

But at least he didn't get so many odd looks now. And he could tell, could sense if someone was watching him or not.

Watari used to joke that L was psychic somehow, but the younger man knew better. It was an easy enough matter to sense things about people, just from watching the face, body language, tone of voice…

The back of his neck prickled with awareness.

…or pure instinct.

Someone was watching him. It may not have been out of malice, L knew, but it was enough for his healthy sense of self-preservation to kick into overdrive.

He scuffled his way for another few minutes and when the uneasy feeling did not grow or lessen, he took a sharp right into an alleyway. Then he broke into a run.

He supposed it was a good thing that he had experience in these sorts of things. In the days before the great detective L appeared to save police and government agencies everywhere, he had to be able to lose people tailing him, as well as to not lose someone he was tailing. He had hunted criminals from above, as well as stalking them below, chasing them by car, by motorcycle, by bike; heck, he'd even once stolen some beachgoer's motorboat to pursue some thief who thought a _yacht _was a great escape vehicle (that was one chase that did not last long).

The alley was winding and mazelike, and L ran through it almost recklessly. He took random turns, danced around staggering drunks and scowling urchins, and plunged into shadows seemingly without a thought as to what lay beyond it. Still, nobody who knew him would dare call him reckless. And if one studied his route long enough one could see his erratic path wound inexorably south, towards the docks.

His feet slapped against the ground.

It felt surprisingly good to run. He'd spent so much time inside, in front of one electronic screen or another that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to move freely, to push himself faster, farther, to go as far as his limits would allow. The gash in his back growled with every step, but he paid it no heed.

He felt a vague flicker of thanks for Watari who reminded him to keep in shape, but that was quickly lost under the whip of wind against his skin and the pounding of feet against the ground. Whatever danger that might have existed had long past, but he didn't stop. Perhaps he shouldn't have been exhausting himself like this, but the night way young and Stratting's was a long way yet.

For a short while, here in late nineteenth-century London, the renowned detective L dropped his masks, his concerns, his analyzing, and lost himself in running.

For the first time in over a decade, he felt human.

And it terrified him.

* * *

><p>Anyone passing by the clothing store Stratting's would have to wonder what Mr. Wellington was thinking when he started the business.<p>

Not that the store was doing badly. Actually, for a business mainly dependant on visiting dignitaries with too much money to spend, it was doing well, though never quite as well as Mr. Wellington liked to think. After all, it _was_ located on the docks—a gritty place where only the desperate, the naïve, and sailors dared to tread; where the stink of fish and sewage hung in the air in clouds and the ground squished faintly underfoot.

The boy's—man's, he reminded himself, he was a man—lip curled in contempt. The docks. A disgusting, useless place, much like Stratting's and the rest of London. A sickening place, so it made sense that _he _would choose to come here. Like attracted like, after all.

If he could, he would raze the entire city to the ground. It wouldn't be much of a change, seeing how smoke filled the skies most of the time anyway; he would just be brightening the place up a bit.

He couldn't do that, though, and so had to satisfy his rage wreaking havoc with _his_ life. Glass vials in his bag clinked, and he idly traced the outline of one flask through the thick leather.

The bag was a comforting weight at his hip, a reminder that no matter what happened, his thirst for revenge _will_ be satisfied.

_Not yet, though. Not yet._

A rustle of cloth sounded from behind him and he whirled around, one hand still clutching his bag as if afraid it would be ripped away from him.

"Who's there?"

* * *

><p>Stratting's. L gazed impassively at the bold letters before turning and slipping around to the back of the building.<p>

Holmes had said that Robbins had been in danger of falling out of his bedroom window, but none of the windows at the front of the building were built to be opened.

He was lucky, he supposed, that the store was located near the docks—in the older part of town. Here the buildings were shorter and spaced out, with plenty of space for a detective to sneak around. A quick glance told him that the windows on the right side were far too small to fall out of, as with the left. Robbins' bedroom was located at the back of the building. L looked up, homing in on the single, lonely light shining through thin curtains fluttering in the breeze. Through it was a silhouette of a man of average build hunched over a desk—almost certainly Robbins.

The building itself had only two stories, with the bottom floor mostly taken up by Stratting's itself. It—in fact, this entire street—was made up of blocky and rough-hewn rock with only slashes of metallic gutter pipe to break up the mottled grey. That was good. Unfortunately, the air was damp and the stone walls were probably slicked with mould, but L had faith enough in his own abilities.

He turned around and began scaling the building behind Stratting's.

It really wasn't so much a skill as a hobby. As a child he'd lived by the simple philosophy that, as long as it took him far away from other people as possible, it was a good thing. This reasoning served him well in his time on the streets, and helped him to stay away from overbearing caretakers and irritating children at the orphanage.

Privacy at a crowded orphanage was difficult to find. Not impossible, though. And if he couldn't find peace and quiet on the ground, then the only way left to go was up. Trees, roofs, bookcases, he climbed anything and everything and drove the caretakers crazy.

That was one thing he and B had in common, though not many knew of it (not that many people knew that he and B had anything in common at all, of course, or even who B was). L didn't think even Watari was aware of this.

But if the man who poisoned Mrs. Robbins was B, then he would be up there. On the building, overlooking the damage he had caused. Turning around with a crazed smirk on his face, sneering, "Got your attention now, _L_?"

…Of course, there was a healthy chance (about 98 percent) that the murderer wasn't B. He could probably fill an entire book on why it wasn't. But if L could detain Light for months on end on the slim possibility of his being Kira, then he would scale a building to search for B. For his peace of mind, if nothing else.

He pause in mid-climb, pondering the ridiculousness of that statement. Him? Peace of mind? What need did he have for that?

With a grunt, he heaved himself onto the gently sloping roof. Perhaps he _shouldn't_ have run so much. He was certainly regretting it now.

He brushed dirt off his hands and looked around, peering into the darkness. He was not alone up here—he could hear the rasp of shoe against shingling and the shift of fabric against fabric.

He scowled. Why was it so cloudy? He couldn't see more than a vague outline against the night sky.

As if sensing his thoughts, the moon suddenly peeked out from behind a blanket of clouds, throwing the other's face in sharp relief. L's eyes widened.

Dark hair, in total disarray. Pale skin. Red-brown eyes glittering in the moonlight. Anyone else would think he was looking into a mirror, but L knew better. _It's…_

And then the boy opened his mouth.

"Who's there?"

L narrowed his eyes. B would never say anything that sounded as uncertain as that. Nor would he be so careless as to allow someone to sneak up on him. So that meant…this wasn't B?

Scrutinising the boy before him, L noted small differences he had missed previously. This man, whoever he was, was half a head shorter than he was, a hair shorter than B, with a slightly stockier body as well. He wore a ragged coat over dirty pants that weren't quite long enough for him. His face was more reminiscent of Light's than B's, and, L realized, the moonlight had washed the man's skin in pale light making it look far paler than it actually was. No, this was definitely not B.

The detective scowled inwardly, berating himself for making such a stupid mistake, ignoring the strange stab of disappointment that followed his realization.

"Who are you?" the boy demanded. "How did you get up here?" His eyes (so like B's!) were wide and unfocused, as if he had just been woken from a dream.

Which was, frankly, such a stupid question that L wondered how he'd ever mistaken him for someone who could eventually take his place. "You're the one who poisoned Robbins' wife," he said, not deigning to answer either question.

The boy stiffened, his gaze clearing and sharpening. However, the expression disappeared as quickly as it appeared; replaced with the same fish-eye look as before. "Yes, I did," he smirked. "Are you going to do anything about it?"

He straightened in a movement obviously meant to look confident, and something in a pouch on his hip clinked. L cocked his head thoughtfully—was that where he kept his poisons?

"That depends. Why did you do it?"

The boy bared his teeth in a mimicry of a smile. "He deserved it."

"Robbins."

"Yes." The boy squirmed a little under L's scrutiny. "Who are you?" he growled, finally.

"Ross." He had only paused for the briefest of moments, habit catching up to him, before remembering that he was not in his world—'L' had no meaning here. "And you? Do you have a name, or shall I call you 'boy'?"

The boy's eyes flashed in anger. "I am not a boy! I am a man—a dangerous one, and you will do well not to trifle with me." His tone grew sly. "In fact, I'm probably older than you are. Perhaps you should stop playing detective and run on home. Leave the important work to the _men_."

L didn't rise to the jab. This misconception was one he was familiar with and actively promoted. "What is your grievance with Robbins?" he asked instead. "Why did you poison his wife?" Normally, he wouldn't be so blunt, but he doubted anything less than that would give him the information he wanted. The boy looked like he was having trouble staying aware.

A stiff breeze cut over the roof as clouds drifted in front of the moon again, and L strained his eyes to see. The boy shifted, appearing to slip a hand into his coat pocket.

The boy's reply floated over him, almost whimsical in the darkness. "He robbed me of something precious from me, so I took something from him. He stole my heart and ruined my life, so I destroy his. It's only fair, right?" He chuckled darkly. "Of course, he _has_ no heart, so I can't very well take _that_ from him, but I can come close. So, so close."

L frowned, though it was not at the boy's words. The detective was almost sure the boy was reaching for something in his pocket. "If that is the case, your work is done. Robbins is nothing without his wife. With such a poor plan, you can not hope to do any better."

The boy snarled. "You don't know half of what I plan to do—I am far from finished! I'll—" He paused. "Oh, you are a tricky one, aren't you? Unfortunately for you, I am too smart to fall for your traps. But as reward for your troubles, I'll give you my name. You can call me 'Justice'."

L barely had time to register his words before the boy moved, pulling something out of his pocket and pointing it at him. The detective threw himself to the side as a sharp _crack _of a bullet rang through the air, then leapt forwards.

For a moment, he thought he heard the pounding of running footsteps, but he shoved that thought out of the way. The boy obviously had no idea how to use a firearm, judging how he was waving the revolver around.

_Idiot,_ L thought, _at this rate, he'll get _both_ of us hurt._ The skin on his back burned fiercely, reminding him that he should be wary of getting any more injured than he already was.

The boy seemed to have realized something of his lack of skill with the gun as well. He danced out of the dark-haired man's reach. "Well, it seems I should be going, now…"

L didn't give him the chance. Dropping to the roof, he swept the boy's legs out from under him. However, the boy had been closer to the edge of the roof than he'd realized.

_How troublesome_.

L reached out to grab the boy, but his fingers met only air. He gazed down at the ground below. _Did he escape?_

No—he didn't. With the faint light leaking in from the streets, L could make out a thin human figure at the base of the building. And beside it, a second one—a shorter, stouter man holding something lumpy in his arms. His eyes narrowed. It was…

"L," Holmes called up. "It seems you've had a most interesting night. I trust you're well enough to come down?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>On L:<em>**_ Yes, L is a clever guy. Yes, he would have known the stupidity of running out in the middle of the night to confront a murderer. Yes, he should have realized immediately that the person before him had not been B (not to mention the improbability of it being so). And he did, to some degree. _

_But you have to remember: he is human. No matter how careful or meticulous he is, I believe the BB Case had affected him deeply on some level (he denies it, but don't believe him) and the first thing he thought of when hearing of a murderer lookalike was 'B'. He had gone out with an image (of B) firmly in his mind. We'll just have to forgive him for his mistakes. _

**_On the boy_**_: I call him a boy, though he's probably in his late teens/ early twenties in age. I'd been thinking about putting B into this role, but then realized that I don't understand his character enough to write it out. So I made up a character._

_His personality is a strange cross between B and Light with a hefty dose of craziness thrown in. I am quite fond of him for some reason. It's okay if you don't like him, though - he is an antagonist after all. _

**_On everything else: _**_I have a love/ hate relationship with this chapter. __Some parts of it were really fun to write (say, Watson and Holmes' conversation in the beginning). Other parts of it were a nightmare to write. _

_Like, for example, L. The only case we see him solve (kinda) in the manga and anime is the Kira case. And we're lead to believe he mostly only works on high-profile, extremely top-secret and important cases. Which makes writing this, well, hard. I read the entire article on Wikipedia about him, then stared at some pictures, before I even attempted to imagine what he would do. I'm not fully confident about this, though, so tell me if I'm screwing around with his personality too much._

_Whoa...that was a long A/N. But at least I'm finished now, right?_


	7. Interlude

_An interlude, of sorts. I'm sure all of us are wondering what's going on back in Japan, right?_

_And for anyone who's wondering, since the start of the story it has been about two days in London and about a little over an hour in Japan (yes, time travels faster in Holmes' world). And as for the reason behind this time difference, I could go on and on about time-space continuums and inter-verse travelling, but I'm sure you don't want to hear about this, do you? (The reason is not because I was too lazy to handle the complications that would arise from L's not being unconscious for several days on end, of course. Not at all.)_

_Oh, and one other thing - and this is completely off topic, by the way - I was wondering if any of you guys have read or watched Hikaru no Go? I've recently started reading the series and just can't seem to be able to put it back down...though this may be because my sixth grade teacher had taught me how to play go (or weiqi, as it's known in Chinese) and so the story makes a bit more sense to me than it would to people who've never heard of the game. Not to mention I've always had a sort of fondness for the game. Meaning I'm better at it than, say, chess even though I'm still quite crap at it..._

* * *

><p>Yagami Soichiro idly flipped through the thick book, pausing once in a while to drink from a mug that stood by his elbow.<p>

Since Light had temporarily taken command of the investigation team, no one really dared to slack off on _anything_. It was a well known fact that Soichiro's son was almost as brilliant as L but far shorter-tempered. And no one was brave enough to risk L waking up to find that no work had been done in his absence, after all.

And so for most of the day the break room had remained empty. In fact, the only reason why Soichiro was in there was because after six straight hours of work, the only interruption being when Light accidentally knocked out L, he just couldn't find it in himself to keep focused. He wasn't young anymore. Still, he planned to return to work right after he finished his drink.

To an outsider, the break room was simply a bright-lit room with doors leading into both the hallway and the investigation room. It was a relatively small room, with gleaming appliances dotting the counters and surrounding the single table in the centre. It was practically a kitchen—one not much different from any other in the world.

To the members of the investigation team, however, the break room was a haven. Two words: coffee maker.

L was a slave master. There was no excuse—he worked harder than any of them and demanded nothing less but the best in return. He pushed them to the limits of their abilities and patience, and sometimes one had to wonder what in the world they were doing in his company.

But if he had one virtue, it was that he wasn't stingy when it came to things that really mattered.

Like coffee.

There were no less than ten types of coffee mix in the cupboard, all of them high-quality. Over the weeks, each member had found their favourite. Most of them preferred one type of coffee blend or another, but Matsuda always had the peculiar drink he made by mixing the different varieties together. L didn't seem to drink much coffee at all…

"Hello, Yagami."

He started, nearly spilling his coffee. He hadn't noticed Watari sneak up on him. "Afternoon, Watari-san."

"How's the investigation going?"

"Same as always." Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, Soichiro thought; it just meant that Kira was biding his (or her) time. Watari didn't need to be told something like that, though.

Watari nodded and turned for the coffee maker, pouring himself a full cup. He reached for the sweetener and cream and poured copious amounts of each.

Soichiro raised his eyebrows. "That can't be healthy."

Watari laughed softly as he slid into the seat across from him. "No, but I can't seem to drink it any other way. L's rubbed off on me, I suppose."

Soichiro smiled. "He's rubbed off on Light, too, I think. This morning I saw him sneaking a slice of cheesecake with his toast." There was probably some law out there that he was breaking by talking behind the famous detective's back like this, but he couldn't resist.

"Are you upset?"

"Eh?" That drew him out of his thoughts. "Why?"

Watari was staring at him in a distinctly L-like way. "Now that the handcuffs are off, I've forbidden your son to leave this floor. Is that alright with you?"

"What? Ah…sure, I guess." Since when had Watari or L needed to ask for his permission? "I mean, I understand why you did that."

The older man studied him for a moment longer, then broke away with a thoughtful smile. "You are a good father, you know."

"Ah…Thanks." A sudden thought struck Soichiro. "Is L sort of like a son to you?" Immediately, he bit his tongue. Why did he ask something so blatantly personal? He tensed, waiting for a smooth dismissal.

Watari surprised him by answering. "Yes, I suppose in many ways he is my son. I took care of him when he was young and helped him when he decided what he wanted to do. Not that I could really stop him—he was a stubborn child when it came down to it." His eyes drifted down. "Sometimes, I wonder if it was the right…" He broke off, shaking himself out of his reverie. "Never mind that. What have you got there?"

Soichiro glanced down at the hard-bound book he'd been unconsciously fingering. "Um…well, _Sherlock Holmes_." He flushed slightly, not really wanting to explain how or why he's taken it from L's room.

The truth was, the book fascinated him. He wondered why _L_ would want to read such a book.

Come to think of it, he couldn't recall L reading any book at all. So why were there so many books in his room? Perhaps he used them as doorstops or something—goodness knows this book was heavy enough.

"I've read a Japanese translation of it in high school," Soichiro admitted. "But I've never seen the original stories." Not to mention they were in English, which he had enough trouble with without banging his head against into Doyle's language.

"Hmm," Watari hummed. "You should read it some time. It is quite good, I believe. That book is the second of a two-part collection of all the Holmes stories. It was one of the first fictional books L's read, I believe."

"Really?" Soichiro couldn't quite seem to twist his mind around the concept of it. He imagined a young L staggering under the weight of the thick book, and suppressed a grin.

"Really. He was quite a voracious reader in those days, actually." Watari gazed at the book with an indecipherable expression on his face. "I believe those stories were part of the reason why he became a detective in the first place. He admired Holmes for a long time…at least, until he began poking holes in Holmes' reasoning." Laughing, Watari drank the last of his coffee. "Anyway, I believe I should be getting back to work." He stood to rinse his mug.

Soichiro watched as the older man walked out the door and into the investigation room. He sipped at his coffee—which had long gone cold—and opened the book to first page.

He still had fifteen minutes left of his break, after all.

* * *

><p><em>Probably not the best chapter, but it presented a few points that needed to be presented. I just hope it wasn't too OOC.<em>

_I just realized I've never thanked you guys before. Well, I'll do it now - so thank you, all of you readers and reviewers and people for dealing with this messed-up story of mine. You never fail to brighten my day :)_


	8. Chapter 7

_So many chapters, and it's still only the second night!...I need to either write less or make the chapters longer. Or start showing instead of telling._

* * *

><p>"L," Holmes called up. "It seems you've had a most interesting night. I trust you're well enough to come down?"<p>

"It appears to be so," L agreed. He felt for the gutter pipe then, gripping it tightly, swung himself over the edge of the roof and slowly slid down to the ground.

Holmes eyed him as L dusted himself off. "You're like a monkey. The only people I have seen do anything like that are good sailors and circus performers. Are you sure you're not either?"

"And the only people _I_ have seen do anything that stupid are standing right in front of me," Watson snapped. "Only this time it is not Holmes doing it, for once." He suddenly threw the coat he had been holding, at L who managed to catch it just in time. "Really. Running out in the middle of the night, injured, without tellinganyone. _Without a coat._ Do you have a death wish? You'll wake up tomorrow sick, mark my words."

"I knew what I was doing," L cut in smoothly. He considered returning the coat to Watson, but the glare the doctor shot him convinced him otherwise. The coat was far too large for him and he wore it with reluctance.

And he could feel Watson's eyes on him the entire time. "What?" L asked, finally.

"You, that's what. Are you alright?"

"The boy was hardly an expert at firing a gun. I doubt he'd be able to hit a wall if he was standing in front of it." L's annoyance was beginning to show in his voice, making his words more waspish necessary.

The boy had _escaped_.

"That's not what I meant and you knew it," Watson shot back. "Are you feeling tired? In pain? I don't know _what_ possessed you to run out on us. You probably reopened that wound—"

"I didn't."

"—And you could at least have _told_ us where you were going! We would have come with you!"

L stayed quiet, but Watson was not as naïve as to think he was backing down. He sighed softly, feeling slow, heavy, as if all the energy had seeped out of his body. "Do we mean so little to you?"

Silence answered him, telling him all he needed to know.

"Well, then, anyway," Holmes said, trying to diffuse the tension in the air. "As I'm sure you're aware of, Watson and I have plenty of questions. This matter is a singularly curious one, and there appears to be more to it than first meets the eye.

"I assume he escaped?" L asked suddenly.

"Who?" Holmes frowned. "I believe we saw someone slink away when we arrived, but we couldn't be sure. Was he the person who shot at you?"

L nodded. "Yes," he paused as if considering something, then quickly described the conversation between him and the boy.

Holmes nodded thoughtfully. "So…this man 'Justice' as he calls himself…you believe he is the man we're looking for?"

"Yes. I am almost positive." A pause, then, "How did you know where to find me?" _You followed me, didn't you?_

Holmes almost grimaced. "We followed you. Still, we weren't precisely sure where you were until we heard the gunshot. You did a good job at losing us," he added, a dark glint in his eyes.

"Thank you."

They moved as they talked, walking out into to street. It was the time of night when the streetlights pooled sullenly on the cobblestones, fighting in vain against the encroaching darkness and doing not much more than ensuring people didn't run into each other. And sometimes not even that.

Holmes opened his mouth as if to say something more when a door in front of them crashed open, spilling light and rowdy conversation into the street. A ragged group of sailors exited a building and staggered away, reeking of bad alcohol and singing at the top of their lungs. One glanced over at the three as he passed by and grinned toothily at Holmes. "Hey! I know you…yer that 'tective—Serlock…Shurluck…Serr…that 'tective! You caught dat…dat thief!" Nodding wisely at his words, the he was pulled away as he and his friends made their winding way down the street.

Holmes snorted softly and—almost unconsciously—began walking at a faster pace than before. Watson hurried after him. _Like a dog_, L thought scathingly, stubbornly refusing to speed up.

The streets were no less dark than before, but the three had moved out of the dock area and into parts of the city that were…softer. The ground no longer squelched underfoot and L thought that perhaps the smell of damp and sewage was finally beginning to fade from his nostrils.

All this did not make the walk any more comfortable. Tension seemed to hover over their heads, demanding answers to question no one knew how to ask.

A young woman was walking in the opposite direction. She spotted the trio and, as if sensing their black mood, pulled her coat tighter around herself and quickly crossed the street, avoiding them completely. L noted this with disinterest and wondered idly what her life was like to warrant such wariness. Surely not everyone around here was like that, as the sailor proved. Of course he was drunk, but inebriety just stripped away inhibitions, not creating entirely new desires, right?

Holmes and Watson wanted to talk to him, that he was aware of. He was in no mood to answer, though. The boy had escaped—without a trace, it seemed. All the detective and his biographer had of the boy was a gunshot and a shadowy figure. And L's word, of course.

They were honest men—that L knew from reading Doyle's stories. Decent men who prided themselves on loyalty and mercifulness, even if not strict moral perfection. Still, there was only so much they could take before the eccentric stranger they'd met before turned into a primary suspect.

L's actions _were_ suspicious. And allowing the boy to escape made him even more so. That was not good, because L had a distinct feeling that Holmes and Watson had something to do with his being in London. And if they lost faith in him, how would he get back?

The remains of his pride chaffed. The boy had escaped, but not before stealing some of L's pride. Catching him again would be difficult, but not impossible. Never let it be said that L didn't rise to a challenge.

"What's your name?" Holmes' voice drifted over him, jolting him out of his thoughts.

L lifted his head and realized that Holmes and Watson had pulled far ahead of him. And farther and he would lose them. Gritting his teeth, L quickened his stride until he was once again walking beside them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Holmes' mouth twitch in a smile. But when he began talking, there was no hint of anything but seriousness in his voice.

"It is L, of course," L replied.

Holmes acted as if he hadn't spoken. "Most people, if they thought they knew something about a killer, or suspected someone, their first reaction would be to talk with the police, or a detective, or _somebody_. They would be afraid to apprehend the criminal themselves. Even sailors, as you've just seen, do so though they're most assuredly capable of taking care of themselves.

L ignored him and studied his surroundings instead. The buildings looked familiar, if only because he'd seen their modern versions before.

"I say 'most people', because not everyone is like that. I, for example, am not. If I felt I knew something, I would seek to find validation for my suspicions, and catch the criminal myself. This is because I _know_ I can handle the criminal—Watson and I, I mean, since he would probably be helping me. However, that is beside the point. The point is that _I_ would go out and search for the killer myself because _I_ am a detective and I've caught criminals in the past. _I_ know I can catch him, and I would probably not talk with the Yard beforehand because they'll only get in my way." Holmes' eyes glittered with the sort of success one would associate with someone who's just completed a difficult puzzle.

_That_ building, L decided, was to be a well-known pastry shop a century from now. He'd gone there once or twice in the past (future?), and their apple pies were delicious.

"Now, the only people who would willingly seek out a killer at night are either reckless, criminals themselves, or," Holmes smirked. "Like me."

Their strawberry cakes were great, too. L found himself with a sudden fierce craving for something sweet. Or something in general. He couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten something.

"I don't believe you are reckless. And I'll give you the benefit of doubt in regards of your criminality. So, L, do you happen to work in law enforcement?"

L finally faced him, an unreadable expression flashed across his face. "So what if I do?"

_Holmes is sharp_, L thought. A brief lash of unreasonable terror shot through his body before he clamped down it. He was L in this world, but he wasn't _L_. Holmes suspecting he was a detective did nothing, absolutely nothing. Holmes hadn't won—there wasn't even, in fact, any game they were playing for him to win.

"Oh, nothing," Holmes shrugged. "I'm just curious. I have some questions."

"Mmm," L hummed, nibbling a bit at his thumb and wincing at the salt-and-rust taste. "As does everyone." He waited for the question. When nothing else came, he prodded, "Yes?"

The three stopped abruptly. Holmes turned and stepped closer towards L, as if he could find his answer by studying the other man close enough. "Tell me."

L was unfazed. He leaned in until the two were almost nose to nose. "Yes?" he asked again.

Holmes seemed to be struggling with his words for a moment (_how strange,_ L thought, _he never did that in the books_) before pushing on. "I've been wondering this for some time. And I've decided that the only way I'm going to get answers is by asking _you _L. Who are you? Where did you come from? You don't seem to be from this era."

L's eyes did not widen. His lower jaw did not drop. Apart from a slow rocking backwards on his heels, he showed no sign that Holmes' comment affected him in any way.

L was not surprised. He wasn't. He expected something like this to happen. Truly, he did. Holmes was a famous, brilliant detective, and it was only a matter of time for something like this to come up. This didn't mean that Holmes had won. It didn't even matter if he knew the truth, because this was an alternate world and his name meant nothing here and anything could happen to him (not that he'd let it) and it wouldn't matter a whit whether he was from this time or another time and no one would ever, ever know.

(Suddenly, he felt very alone.)

"Why do you say that?" L asked carefully.

Holmes gave a small, tight-lipped smile. "Because your mannerisms aren't like anything I've ever seen before. You just don't seem to fit in the Victorian era. Are you from another country?"

L let out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Holmes continued talking, oblivious to L's momentary panic.

(No. It was not a panic. It was _not_. It was an instant of oversight, of jumping-to-conclusions that was a part of L's nature that he never liked very much. Sometimes it helped him in his cases, but most of the time he compensated by being overly careful and meticulous. Things he hadn't done enough of lately.)

"Are you going to answer the questions?" Holmes asked, somewhat impatiently.

L considered that. Was he? If Light had asked him that, he would probably flash a smirk—Light hated his smirks—and say something like, "only if you answer mine". Or maybe accuse him of being Kira; that usually ended conversations quite quickly.

But Holmes was definitely not Light and so L did not do any of that. He didn't do anything at all, actually, and just waited. Holmes had a point behind all this, and he would reveal it if only L waited.

He didn't have to wait long.

Holmes stepped back, as if just remembering now how close he had been to the other man. Surprisingly, it was Watson who finally broke the ice. "I'm sorry if we're prying. But, please, see it from our perspective. You suddenly turn up one day, Holmes and I get a case, someone is killed, then we find _you_ sneaking out and talking to the killer! Who, coincidently escaped. Give us _one_ reason to trust you."

"Trust, is it?" L faked innocence. It always came down to trust, didn't it? Trust that the strange dark-haired man you'd met only yesterday wouldn't kill you in your sleep. Trust that, deep down, he was good-hearted, even if you have every reason to believe the opposite.

Trust that the detective and his biographer honestly held faith in you, and wasn't just waiting for the first opportunity to turn you over to the Scotland Yard (not that you minded that happening, it was just that it probably would be difficult travelling between worlds while trapped behind bars, wouldn't it?). Trust you would survive this insane trip. That the investigation team would still be there when you returned; that you hadn't done the wrong thing handcuffing yourself to Light.

Trust that you would _get back_.

L was tired. No, he was L and he didn't get _tired_, didn't care about pointless things like morals, didn't get lost, didn't ever, ever panic. He wasn't tired, wasn't weary of crazed young killers with skewed morals homing in on him even when he was half a world and century away. He most definitely wasn't homesick. He was L, and this was all a game to him.

Watson nodded. "Yes. Can we trust you?" There was a hopeful note in his voice behind the suspicion, but behind _it_ was simply more wariness. Halfway around the world and a century in the past, and still nothing changed.

"No," L said simply, and left it at that.

* * *

><p><em>...And I think that's the last nighttime scene. I'm sorry for the slowness, but we're probably going to be moving on, starting next chapter...<em>_But not before I do some major editing on the previous chapters - especially the beginning of the first chapter and probably eventually including this one. They're in dire need of it._

_Gahh L is a difficult character! (As is Holmes...Watson was strangely fun, though.) I read through a bunch of really nice Death Note oneshots, and when I finished, I had a sudden miraculous understanding of L's character. I hurried to the story file and was all set to write with brilliant insight on his personality for about two seconds before I lost it. -sighs sadly-_

_Feedback will be appreciated!_


	9. Chapter 8

Watson woke to golden sunlight and the musty smell of paper. Blearily he sat up, his notebook falling from his cheek with a mild sucking sound.

He glanced at the window and frowned at the light that had woken him up; he had been so tired yesterday that he'd forgotten to pull the drapes. Still, judging from the angle of the sun it was still much too early to be awake, especially considering the time he'd finally gotten into bed last night.

It was so tempting! But if he gave in now, he'd probably end up sleeping the day away. After deliberating for a while, Watson sighed and crawled out of bed. All this thinking was only serving to wake him up further, after all.

The notebook dropped on the ground as he made his bed. With a groan, he bent down to pick it up, feeling his back creak.

The three of them—that was, Holmes, L, and himself—had been busy all of yesterday searching for any record of the mysterious 'boy', or of shady elements in Robbins' past, or of anything, really. This meant, of course, lots of walking, lots of questioning, and of course, lots of hunched-over squinting at yellowed papers at inhuman times of night.

This was the kind of work Watson would much rather have left to Holmes and L who for some strange reason seemed to be almost _enjoying_ the work. Still, all those papers would be finished faster with three pairs of eyes than with two, and it wasn't as if he had better things to be doing anyway.

As a result, he found little time to write in his journal. He'd tried catching up with his writing last night, but sleep-deprivation had a habit of catching up to you, and he'd nodded off halfway through the fifth paragraph.

Watson scowled at the slash of black that trailed off from his sleep-sloppy writing where his hand had dragged the pen across the page before falling to the bed, soon followed by the rest of him as he finally surrendered to his weariness. He would probably end up ripping that page out, though not so much as because of the line as for the barely-coherent writing that preceded it as well. _This_ was why people did not write half-asleep, after all.

Closing his book and placing it on his night table, he rubbed his cheek (hoping that wasn't smudged ink he felt) and went downstairs to wash up for breakfast.

_Is anyone else up yet?_ he wondered. Mrs. Hudson most likely was, but Holmes was probably still snoring away. Most days nothing short of an explosion could drag the detective from his bed, and sometimes not even. L, on the other hand was still young—he would be sleeping for sure. Although that sitting-room couch couldn't possibly be comfortable…

Watson made his way to the kitchen. He stopped just outside the door as voices drifted through the open doorway.

"I have been using this method for over a decade. In fact, I may go so far as to claim that I _developed_ it. I believe I am reasonably correct in saying that it is quite efficient."

"I agree that your deduction is _efficient_, Holmes. I'm just saying that sometimes there are situations where it may not work as well as other methods."

A pause. Watson could almost feel Holmes raising an eyebrow. "Really. So are you saying the Yard's trial-and-error strategy is better?" The biographer almost snorted. What was L thinking, questioning Holmes' beloved and much-tested method of investigation? He was extremely proud of his system, and any attack upon it was tantamount to an assault on the detective himself.

Watson grinned and settled against the wall. He wouldn't want to interrupt the thrashing Holmes was sure to give the younger man by walking into the room, after all.

L hummed in thought. "Mmm…no, not really. But that is not to say that your method is far better, necessarily…Let's say you have a woman who came to you because her daughter was missing. What do you do?"

Holmes' reply was quick. "I would investigate the daughter's acquaintances, her favourite places to visit, the state of her finances. Anything that may lead me to her whereabouts."

"And is that not the investigation technique employed by the Yard?" L's voice may have been mildly amused, but it was hard to tell.

"It is quite a bit more refined, if you'll excuse me saying so," Holmes replied haughtily. "I investigate logically, and you can deduce much from a single investigation."

"And if the girl's body were found washed up in a river? What then?"

"What then?" Holmes was incredulous. "If, God forbid, such a tragic situation were to arise, I would just have to employ all my energies into determining the cause of her death. The mother deserves some closure, after all.

"What if it was a man?"

"What if it was a man what?"

"What if it was a man who dumped her into the river?"

Icy silence. Watson couldn't quite believe his ears. To think that men would resort to such perversion…

Finally, Holmes spoke. "Then I would hunt him down and bring him to justice."

A long pause. Then, quietly, "What if you can't? What if that man were part of a larger group—one that controlled the entirety of the police and most of the city? To take down one single man is nothing against corruption on that scale."

"This…this isn't a made-up story, is it?" Holmes asked. "You speak as if you had personal experience with such a case."

"So what if I did? Answer my question. What would _you_ do?"

The conversation had taken a dark turn. Unbelievable. Just unbelievable. It was incredible that L's voice remained steady and emotionless throughout this conversation—Watson himself, who normally had a strong stomach for such things, was starting to feel slightly nauseous.

Holmes hesitated before answering. "I would weed out the members of the group; cleanse the city of their corruption as much as I can."

"Be truthful. Fear has taken out far greater men than you, Holmes," L said calmly.

Watson scowled. Was it possible to have a conversation with L without it turning bloody? Without having words transform into shards of glass and feel them rip and tear somewhere deep inside?

"Is that how you think of me?" Holmes voice was cutting. "Then, let me ask you—what did _you_ do?"

L reply was immediate and unashamed. "I backed off. I didn't want to tinker with the inner politics of the city. I didn't want to deal with the gang."

"And you accuse _me_ of—"

L continued. "It would have been boring. Too much effort for nothing in return. And _they_ took care of some of their people, at least. The families that were allied with the group—and they were many—were protected, even cared after, more or less. The city was dirty and crime-ridden, yes, but there was a sense of…" He hesitated for the first time. "…_family_ beneath it all. That is more than what it would be with city officials in charge." He paused, as if thinking. "I was young, and it was one of my earlier official cases. I may not have made the best decision, but it is too late to change that now."

"You _are_ young, L."

"I was younger then."

"How…?"

"Sixteen."

"Sixteen!" The word burst from Watson's lips without his consent.

The scraping of chair against floor was heard. "Watson?" Holmes exclaimed.

Whoops.

He fought back an embarrassed blush as he finally entered the kitchen. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "I overheard the two of you talking…"

L waved a dismissive hand. "No problem." He and Holmes were seated around the table, leftovers of what must have been a glorious breakfast spread before them. L sat properly for once, his injury preventing him from taking his preferred position. He picked at a large slice of apple pie. "Want some?" he asked.

Watson blinked at the sudden subject change. "Excuse me?"

Holmes pulled out a chair. "Take a seat, Watson. That's yours," he pointed at a plate of untouched food. "You've been sleeping for a long time."

It was as if the previous conversation had never taken place. Watson sat down woodenly, mind whirling at the change in pace.

Holmes continued, "Your breakfast is probably cold now."

Watson took a bite of egg and made a face. "It is." Well, if they weren't going to mention anything, he wouldn't either…

"Heat it up," the detective suggested.

"No, this'll be fine." Even cold, Mrs. Hudson's meals were delicious. "Where's Mrs. Hudson?" Watson asked.

"She's gone out," Holmes replied. "She mentioned something about buying supplies, since L here mentioned some interest in her desserts."

"You two are very lucky," L cut in, waving his fork, "if all her food is as good as this pie here." He scraped his plate for the last of it and licked his fork clean.

Watson chuckled softly. "If you're not careful, she'll feed you 'til bursting. That woman has no idea what constitutes as a normal meal size." He ran an appraising eye over the dark-haired man. "Although you look like you need it." Even borrowed clothing—clean and crisp—did little to disguise the man's haggardness. "Do you sleep at all?"

L shrugged. "I find no need in wasting so much time sleeping. I function perfectly well without it."

Watson shook his head sadly. "You'll find the benefits of sleep far outweigh the time it 'wastes', so you say." He glanced at Holmes. "Please tell me you, at least, got some sleep last night?"

Holmes rolled his eyes. "Six hours, as required. I turned in just a little after you did."

"Good. At least one of us is awake—_my_ mind still thinks itself to be in bed."

"But you slept more than any of us!" Holmes exclaimed.

"Details, details." Watson waved his hand dismissively. Finishing his food in a few large bites, he stood from the table. "We should start working. At this rate we'd still be sitting here at dinnertime."

He strode for the sitting room, for all intents and purposes entirely focused on the case. Still, there was something in the back of his mind that refused to let go of the image of a sixteen-year-old L chasing after one disease and finding corruption on an almost unimaginable scale, and of him seven years later, unable to find it in himself to sleep at night.

Watson shook himself of such thoughts. L had made it explicitly clear that he didn't want help of any sort. Their strange truce only extended so far into Robbins' case, and no more. Whatever the young man's problem was, it was none of the biographer's business.

* * *

><p>They sat around the sitting room table, paper littering every available surface as if a miniature snowstorm had blown through the room. Occasionally sighs of disappointment could be heard behind the mess, other times an excited hum would draw the attention of the other two. But for the most part they worked in silence only broken by the rustling of papers and clothing shifting against fabric.<p>

Watson groaned as he tossed his newspaper down on the floor beside him. "That's the last of the family trees. Nothing. Again." He began collecting the papers littering the ground and sorting them into piles to be returned to the Yard.

There was a plate of hard candies on the table, and L reached for one and popped it in his mouth. "Strange that there are no oddities in Robbins' family whatsoever," he commented, the side of his mouth bulging from the caramel. "No illegitimate children, no obvious alcoholics, no secret meetings in the middle of the night…"

"His family farmed on the outskirts of a small town," Watson countered. "It is not so unusual if you take that in consideration. I _told_ you there was nothing to be found in the family trees."

"Still," L murmured. "Everybody has a secret. It is just a matter of knowing where to look." He crunched down on the candy.

"And I believe I may have it."

Watson and L swivelled in their seats to stare at Holmes, who had been silent up until now. The detective smiled in triumph and set down his newspaper. "The _Evening Herald_. November 3rd, 1883. It—"

There was a knock at the door.

The corners of his mouth turned down. "Yes?" he called out testily, annoyed at having been interrupted.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Goodness!" she exclaimed. "What happened here? Did you pull out all your old case files again, Holmes?"

"No!"

She held his glower for a moment longer, then sighed. "Will you clean up after?"

"What? I always—"

"What do you need of us?" Watson asked quickly. If he left the two to their own devices, they would bicker all morning. He loved the woman, he really did, but he also wanted to know just _what_ it was that Holmes found that made him so excited.

Mrs. Hudson blinked. "Oh!" she said, remembering. She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a slip of paper. "A boy came to drop this off just now. Said it was from the Yard."

Holmes snatched the note from her hands eagerly. "I've asked the Yard to contact me if anything comes up," he explained, grinning fiercely. Despite their best efforts, Watson and L found themselves leaning forwards in anticipation as they waited for the detective to finish reading.

Finally, he raised his head, a predatory light in his eyes. "Guess who they found?"

* * *

><p><em>Ah...crappy update again, I apologize. Unfortunately, with school starting, chapters will be coming out a little slower from now on...<em>

_And for anyone who's wandered through the story again and noticed chapter 1's little different, it's because I finally got around to editing it. Nothing major - just fixed up typos and characterization and the such. I hope nobody's bothered by this. _

_On a different note, HUGE thanks go to the person who added this story to a C2. You guys make my day! _


	10. Chapter 9

_Just as a note, this chapter required a bit more researching than the previous chapters. So I apologise beforehand for any and all inaccuracies..._

* * *

><p>If there was one aspect of Holmes' life that was simple to understand, it was his relationship with the Scotland Yard. Or non-relationship. However you wanted to view it.<p>

Or, at least, that was the way Holmes saw it. Anyone who thought his interactions with the Yard were illogical and strange were most likely highly illogical and strange themselves. After all, the advantages to having (occasionally) a squadron of police far outweighed their (many) shortcomings. It was not a friendship or a twisted love-hate relationship, and it certainly wasn't a rivalry. It was a mutually beneficial occasional partnership, nothing more. Symbiotic. Like the remora fish and the shark. Or lichens and ascomycetes. Or—

The point was that his relationship with the Yard was perfectly valid, even if he suspected Lestrade himself wasn't completely sure why Holmes returned time after time. Still, today was an excellent example how helpful enlisting the aid of the Yard was. Holmes was a proud man, but not a stupid one, and even he knew that there was little chance of catching the boy alone, with only Watson and L for help.

Holmes squeezed out, glad to be out of the cramped confines of the cab. Watson and L eagerly exited after him. Hansom cabs were not built to comfortably seat three full-grown men.

He glanced sideways at L; watched as something unreadable flickered over it—Awe? Fear? It was hard to tell. Inwardly, he scowled. It wasn't often that he came up to something he couldn't read.

"It's a magnificent building, it is not?" the detective asked slyly, fishing.

A lie. The New Scotland Yard was a truly ugly building, all clashing lines and dreary colours. Victorian Gothic painted in red and white, doused in a mix of pretentiousness and desperate determination Holmes had come to associate with all police. September had made its mark here, chilling the air and turning the leaves on the trees a strange brown-green mix that, unsurprisingly, did nothing to help the overall aesthetics of the area.

"Not really," L replied easily. "It's built to intimidate, not impress."

"Hn." So it wasn't the building, then.

Watson hurried to catch up with them after paying the cab driver. "It's been a long time since we've last seen the detectives, hasn't it?" He cocked his head, scrutinising the building. "It seems different, somehow."

"Most likely your perceptions have changed."

"Perhaps."

Holmes pushed open the heavy wooden doors, holding it open for the other two as they entered. There—something passed over L's face again, softening it somehow. And this time Holmes thought he could place it.

Familiarity.

* * *

><p>L stepped into the building, feeling the atmosphere sink to his bones and knocking something heavy off his heart. There was order here, and work being done; a sense of purpose that had been curiously missing ever since he'd fallen into this world.<p>

Ever since he'd…

Fallen? Where had that come from? Why not 'walked', or 'ran', or 'appeared'? L turned the thought over in his head, certain it held some key to returning to Japan. _Fallen_.

So immersed in his thoughts was he, that he didn't notice the short, thin-faced man until he was almost on top of him.

"Holmes!" the man exclaimed, shaking the detective's hand energetically. "Good to see you! How is that consulting business doing for you these days?"

"Well enough, Lestrade," Holmes replied, eyes twinkling. "I caught word that that you have someone we're interested to see."

In contrast to its exterior, the interior of the New Scotland Yard was almost…pleasant, in its own way. Sunlight streamed through tall windows and lit up worn wooden desks and shelves, and the hallways were wide and covered with the obligatory awards and portraits. It wasn't quiet by any stretch of imagination, but conversation seemed hushed, somehow, as if the serious atmosphere swallowed it up. Lestrade's greeting was probably one of the louder sounds echoing in the lobby, and L was sure he had seen one or two people wince at its volume.

"Yes, yes. We found him hanging 'round the rookeries in the East End, near the docks." Lestrade paused. "He has a horrible rage, that one; I thought he had to subdue him—violently—for a moment there, but then he quieted right down. Hasn't made a peer since. Creepy kid." He fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve, and L could see red welts running up his wrists and disappear into the shirt.

Holmes was contemplative, turning this new information over in his mind.

L did so as well. The boy had been found in the slums? The East London slums were notoriously gritty in the nineteenth century, and he had the thought that most people did their very best to stay out of it. Only those who had some business there or who lived in the overcrowded area ventured in that lawless territory; very few did so by choice.

Of course, it was the end of the 1800s, not the beginning, and official slum clearance programs have begun, already changing the face of the East End of London. Still, L had hard put to imagine why an ordinary man would just saunter there. Was the boy employed there? Or did he live in the slums?

Either way, the boy seemed to be poor. Poor, and alone, if Lestrade's officer had found him without seeing anyone else. Recalling the desperate face of the boy that night on the rooftops, L found that that fit.

"Did he posses any poisons on him?" Holmes asked.

Lestrade reached into his pocket and produced a small vial of white powder. "Only this."

L leaned forwards, squinting at the vial. Was that…?

"Opium?" Watson asked.

"Opium," Lestrade agreed.

"So that's what he used," Holmes said, narrowing his eyes speculatively. Realization flashed. "I see! His first attempts were with too little opium, and the illness we saw was just the withdrawal symptoms. That was why Watson could find no sickness in her."

Watson winced, eyes sorrowful. "If I'd had known…"

"Nothing would have changed. He would have tried again and again, as many times as it would have taken to work," Holmes rebuffed him sharply. "You did all you could."

"I suppose so." Watson looked away.

There was a cough. Expectant looks turned to Lestrade.

"My apologies for jumping in like this, but Holmes…" he stopped, then forged onwards. "Holmes, have you ever considered the possibility of his innocence?"

"Of course."

"You're not a bad detective…you're quite good, I guess," Lestrade made a face, as if pained by that admission. "Still, opium is hardly illegal. What proof do we have that he is guilty?"

"Then why did you bring him in?" Holmes asked, mouth thinning.

Lestrade shifted. "Because his appearance fit your description perfectly. You've helped us in the past—I'm not a dishonourable man. I'm just repaying a favour."

"By arresting a man? You wouldn't go so far to repay a simple favour." Holmes cocked his head. "No. You believe me. One some level or another, you believe me."

"Surely not. You know very well I have little respect for your _methods_—"

"Enough."

The impact of one word was just as L had calculated it to be. While it had been amusing to watch the legendary Sherlock Holmes and the famous detective Lestrade have at each other, he was tiring of keeping silent. "Innocent or guilty, we will find out once we have spoken with him. Where is the boy being held?"

Lestrade stared at him as if seeing him for the first time before stepping forwards and sticking out a hand. "I don't believe we've met before." He grinned slightly, cheerful demeanour back on his face. "I'm Lestrade."

L stared at the hand, stared long enough that the other man's smile began slipping off his face. The younger man hesitated, than with a speed that surprised even himself he reached out and gripped the hand tightly. "Indeed," he said flatly. "I'm L."

Lestrade leaned forwards. "Say," he muttered, "you look a lot like the kid we have in our holding cells. A relative?"

"No." At the detective's curious expression, L decided to elaborate. "I merely help Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson with their investigation."

Lestrade nodded, as if that explained everything. Suddenly he spun around and began striding away. "Well, nothing will be achieved by standing around. We took the trouble to bring the boy here. We might as well ask him questions, if nothing else."

"Have you taken his fingerprints?" Holmes asked, long legs easily catching up with the shorter detective. "Or at least gotten his Bertillon measurements? I much prefer the fingerprinting system to identify people, but I suppose measurements have their use."

"Neither," Lestrade answered. He lowered his voice. "There are some of us, police officers I mean, who disagree with us arresting such calm, obviously impoverished man. Then, of course, there are those who are all too eager to clap him in chains." A pause. "He _is_ a very creepy kid."

"What does that matter?" Holmes asked, raising an eyebrow. "You can't think he is some sort of demon, ready to slash your throat the moment you lower your guard." Lestrade stayed silent, a distinct reddish tome tinting his skin.

"You think so," L said.

"No! Not me," Lestrade hurried to defend himself. "But some of the other officers who've been there."

"Young, I suppose? On their first patrol?" L asked, incredulous now.

"Well, yes. Policemen are quite a superstitious group. You have to be, when every patrol could well be your last." Lestrade shook his head. "Still, he may be quite now. But you should have seen his rage when we grabbed hold of him. That is why we brought him in. That kind of rage…he could kill someone. You could see it in his face. Creepy kid," he said again, but it didn't sound like a joke this time. He stopped suddenly at the entrance of a room, a large one. "Here are the holding cells."

They entered.

The holding cells weren't far enough from the entrance of New Scotland Yard that there was difficulty in bringing criminals in. They weren't close enough to bother the working personnel of the building. The term 'out of sight, out of mind' applied nicely here.

That didn't stop them from appointing two guards at the door, though. The two police—tall, bulldozer-like men—eyed them warily as they passed through, as if Holmes or Lestrade were planning to smuggle criminals out if they so much as blinked.

Then again, you could never know. That black-haired slouching guy at the back looked shifty enough.

The interior of the room was large, with cells lining both walls. No windows. Various men and women sat on thin benches behind bars, watching the detectives with expressions ranging from hope to fear to defiance. Sitting on a wooden chair at the back of the room was a young blond-haired policeman, slumped over and snoring softly.

"Officer Handel," Lestrade explained, leading them into the room. "He and Officer Pinto were the ones who saw the boy first, on their patrol."

"Where's Officer Pinto?" Watson asked.

"At home, recuperating. Seems he'd twisted his knee chasing a thief a couple weeks ago. Today's adventures didn't help." Lestrade scanned the rows of cells. "Ah, where'd we put the boy? Cell…cell 16, I think." His eyes settled on the cell, and he stepped forwards, frowning. "Hey, boy?" He knocked on the bars. "We got some visitors for you."

Holmes sighed and L ran a hand over his face. _That_ was not the way to start questioning someone!

A voice drifted from inside. "For the last time, I am not a boy," the boy said, sounding frustrated. "I am a man."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Of course."

The darkness inside the cell shifted slightly, and a thin, ragged figure stepped out of the shadows. Wide eyes examined the detectives crowding the hallway before settling on L. "_You_," the boy whispered.

"Me," L agreed.

The boy looked worse in the daylight. Now, with no moonlight to bleach the colour from his face, and no dark night to hide the dirt on his face or the shadows under his eyes, the boy looked every inch the impoverished urchin. Or he would have, if it weren't for the slight dusting of stubble on his cheeks and the lean, muscled arms poking out from beneath rolled-up sleeves. Slight and skinny he may be, the boy was definitely a young man—in body, if not in mind.

"What's your name? Apparently you were found in the East London slums," L said. "May I ask where?"

"Near the docks," the boy—the _man_—replied, obviously reluctant. The daylight apparently did more than change his looks. He sounded almost…reasonable.

"What were you doing there?" Holmes asked, tone calm and polite.

"Nothin'"

"Really?" Holmes raised an eyebrow. He let his disapproval at the answer show on his face, letting the man stew uncomfortably.

It didn't take long. The man scowled. "Lookin' for a job, that's all. My ol' employer cut me loose."

L suppressed a smirk. He knew—as did Holmes—that interrogation was not a matter of just putting pressure on someone until they broke. No, to get the truth, one needed to use a subtle blend of softness and hard force, play with their words, ply their emotions, then drop the bombshell. And watch their reactions every step of the way, of course.

"Why?"

The man shrugged. "How'm I supposed to know?"

"Why do you carry opium with you?" L asked.

"Opium?" he cocked his head, as if thinking. "Oh. I hurt my foot the other day, and, well, opium is a really good painkiller, you know."

Watson blinked. "So you take it…for your foot?"

"Yes." He pulled his left pant leg up, revealing a red and swollen ankle. "See? It's what my father used to use, you see."

Holmes nodded slowly. "Your father. I see. And…when did you hurt your foot?"

"Two nights ago." L glanced at Watson, who nodded.

"That seems about right." The biographer winced. "If it isn't treated properly. You need to get that looked after." Holmes looked sharply at L, who nodded.

The man was telling the truth. After all, what better way to sprain your ankle (among other things) than to fall off a roof?

He seemed to sense that they had come to some conclusion as well. "You don't have evidence, do you?"

"What?" Watson asked.

"You don't have evidence. That's why you're askin' me all these questions," he elaborated. He raised his voice, addressing anyone who was in earshot. "Of all things! Catchin' criminals is one thing, but arresting innocent London citizens on a _hunch_ is definitely another. What has the Yard come to?" The man's eyes were wide in disbelief, and only L noticed the hands tightly gripping the fabric of the man's trousers and the glimmer of something murderous in the depths of his gaze.

Out of the corner of his eye, L could see the muscles in Lestrade's jaw working furiously. "Are you?" the black-haired detective asked. He met the man's eyes, and held them. "Are you truly innocent?"

The man's stare did not waver and his voice was steady. In it, L fancied he heard all the arrogance and assuredness of he normally associated with himself, and, up until a few weeks ago, with Light.

"Yes," the man said. His eyes glinted with success. "Yes, I am not a criminal."

Lestrade turned to L. "He's lying. I'm sure of it." Watson pursed his lips, glanced at L as if saying _I'm trusting you_, an nodded in agreement.

"Under the circumstances, I believe that is so as well," Holmes said. "Right now the best thing to do is to—"

"Let him go."

L was not—would never be—stupid. He knew, knew the one question that the man had not answered, and knew that it was not by accident.

"_What's your name?"_

He knew that if he asked the question first, neither Holmes nor Watson nor Lestrade would think to ask it again, not while there were so many others to ask. And he knew that if he'd asked the question and didn't press for an answer, no answer would ever be given. Not by choice, anyway. And no answer meant no complicated questions to sort through. So he could finish this quicker.

"_Unfortunately for you, I am too smart to fall for your traps. But as reward for your troubles, I'll give you my name. You can call me 'Justice."'_

Because he knew that, if you were Justice, everything you did was good and right, wasn't it? And if you were right, then everyone else could only be wrong.

L knew, because he had spent the last several months chasing another criminal—another 'Justice'—who was finally the opponent he'd been waiting for all these years. Even if L had him so close (six feet!) and still felt so far away from the answer, that was alright. Because L was L, and L never lost. Never ever. Right?

(There's a first time for everything, his traitorous mind whispered.)

And anyway, this man—this _boy_—would not, _could_ _not_, ever hope to compete with something like _that_. And so L needed to finish this as quickly as possible so he could return to the much worthier game in Japan. And if the boy thought he could outsmart _L _with that arrogant assuredness, he had another thought coming.

_You are Kira._

"Excuse me?" Lestrade exclaimed.

"You heard me," L's mouth tightened. "Let him go."

* * *

><p><em>Uh...I don't know what happened? I was typing up the fifth page of this when my muse suddenly decided to venture on a completely different path and ended up making me cut out the last four pages and replacing it with...this. Not my best work, I'm sorry . But still, I believe it worked out better that what I had before. <em>


	11. Chapter 10

_Uh...long time no see?_

* * *

><p>"What?" Three pairs of eyes turned to L in surprise.<p>

Lestrade scowled. "First you tell my men to catch this boy, and now you're telling me to let him go?"

"I am a man, not a boy!"

Lestrade glanced back at the cell, then stepped away. "Come," he motioned to the other three. "This is no place to be carrying this conversation."

He led them out into the hallway. Finally deeming them suitably far away, he rounded on L. "So, what's this about letting the boy go?"

"Wasn't the boy your suspect in the first place?" Watson added, seeing L open his mouth. "Answer—and none of your word games,"

"You haven't even heard me speak yet," L said.

Watson motioned with his hand. "Then speak."

L inclined his head in a sarcastic nod. "Very well. But you already know what I'm suggesting—to let the boy go. Our problem here is how to get solid evidence quickly, correct?" He brought his thumb to his mouth. "The boy is determined and fuelled by what he believes to be right; if we set him free, the first thing he would do would be to go after Robbins. The moment he attempts something, we get him and there we go: evidence. It is the best way," he paused. "Well, either that or bring Robbins _here_. And that wouldn't—"

Lestrade raised an incredulous eyebrow. "That is a strange idea. Very strange. Ridiculous, I might even go as far to say, if I had not heard of crazier plans from Holmes in the past."

Holmes glanced at him. "My plans are not crazy, if you'll excuse me from saying so. They are logical. Unfortunately, L, I fear your idea has little chance in working. A lot depends on whether you've gauged the boy's mindset correctly, and I dislike putting anyone in danger, especially my clients."

"You've done so in the past," L pointed out. "With the case of the Hound of the Baskervilles."

"How did you—? No, never mind. I remember Watson typing that old case up a few years ago. But that situation is different; at the time there was no choice. The man was getting dangerously close to completing his plans and that absolutely could not happen," Holmes frowned at some distant memory. "And in any case, that cannot apply here. The boy is frustrating, it's true, but he's not causing any harm. And unless he plans on strangling an officer with his shirtsleeve or such, I don't think he will be able to hurt anyone."

L sighed. "You can't keep the boy here forever, you know. Not without concrete evidence."

"We still have a lot of time. The boy could very well make a mistake before then," Watson argued. "However, if we go by your plan and _we_ make a mistake, then Robbin's life could be forfeit. There is no way we can put someone's life in danger, not when there're other options to be had. Evidence or not."

"We cannot just let the boy go," Holmes said. "However, I happen to like your other idea—the one about bringing Robbins here. Perhaps that would be enough to get a reaction from the boy, as you said L."

L's lips thinned. "That—" he paused, as is considering something. "Do you have your revolver, Watson?"

Watson started, his hand automatically moving to his coat pocket. "Well, yes. But I fail to see how that has any bearing to our subject at hand."

L shrugged. "If you have Robbins here, I would feel more reassured if there's a firearm at hand in case the boy gets…violent."

"So you want Robbins brought here, now?" Lestrade asked.

Nodding, L said, "Yes. Holmes said it was a good idea as well, right?"

"It would be an interesting idea to attempt. Surprise the boy with a visit," Holmes replied, glancing back at the cell room.

"Take him off guard, you mean," Lestrade snorted.

L looked at Watson. "Well, what do you think?"

Watson pursed his lips, then nodded. "I'm not an expert at these kinds of things, but I think it's a safer plan than your other one, L. If all of you agree, then I suppose we should go ahead with this."

* * *

><p>Finding Robbins was a task easier said than done. Lestrade had stayed behind at the Yard, saying he was busy with other cases, leaving Holmes, Watson, and L to search for the elusive man.<p>

They visited Strattings' first, as it was the only place Robbins was known to frequent. But when the maid turned them away, they resorted to asking around.

Holmes was proving to be highly successful at wrangling information out of people. However, that didn't help when the information turned out to be things like 'over there, I think (waves in the general direction of the street)' or 'in that tailors-ing shop…what waz it's name again…?' or 'why would you think I'd know? I don't keep the man in my pocket, you know. Now, kindly stop scaring the customers away and leave!' Or, L's favourite, 'Why, he's up in the sky with alllll da—_hic_—birds, doncha know. See! Right—_hic_—over dere! (points at bunny-shaped cloud).'

The sun was readying itself to set when the three finally found Robbins. Back at Strattings'.

"Hello, Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson!" he said brightly as they stepped into the store, a sharp change from the person Holmes had seen—what was it? Two days ago? "How are you?"

L frowned. The man's smiling face set him on edge, and the detective could see as he leaned closer, deep shadows under his eyes and a too-wide gaze.

Robbins didn't seem too pleased at the sight of L, either. His hands whitened as they clutched at the edge of the counter. "You've brought…_him_, I see," he said to Holmes, smile slipping. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"An acquaintance."

"Oh."

"Anyway," Holmes continued, "we believe we've found your wife's murderer. He's in a cell back at the Yard, at the moment. Would you come with us to establish that he, is, in fact the man we want? You've suffered a most grievous loss a few days ago, and we apologize for calling you out for such an errand."

Robbins jumped a little at the word 'murderer', but nodded his head furiously. "Yes, of course! I'll do whatever it takes to bring the man responsible to justice!" He hung a 'closed' sign over the door and sped through the purchases of the few remaining customers. "I don't think Mr. Wellington would mind too much," he told the group as he pulled on his coat.

Thankfully, the trip back to the Yard was short. The last of the sun painted the sky a streaky red-purple as they stepped though the wooden doors of the building.

Many of the officers had already left, L noticed as he looked around the front room. And the ones who were left were focused on their work, as if wanting to get homes as quickly as possible.

Lestrade had been sitting on a nearby bench, and he leapt up as they entered. "Finally!" he exclaimed, swiftly gathering up the papers he'd been working through. "I was getting worried that you wouldn't come. Stuck doing paperwork, of all things!" He scowled at the pile in his hands and deposited it on a nearby desk before turning to Robbins and shaking his hand. "I'm Detective Lestrade, ah, Mr. Robbins, is it? I'm sorry for the loss of your wife."

Robbins nodded absently and looked around the gas-lit room as if expecting the boy to jump out. "Um…where…?" he trailed off. It seemed that the dam holding off all his nervousness and emotions had broken, and the situation had finally dawning on him. He was going to meet, face-to-face, with his wife's murderer. He swayed slightly on his feet.

Lestrade watched the tailor's ashen face cautiously, and asked, "Are you certain you wish to do this? Please don't think we're pushing for you to do anything."

There was a pause, and L imagined he could see Robbins pull himself together. "Yes, yes," Robbins said, squaring his jaw. "I am sure."

Lestrade considered the man for another moment, before nodding and leading them down the hallway to the cells. The guards had switched shifts by then and gave the group only a cursory glance as they passed by. Officer Handel had left.

"Here he is," Lestrade told Robbins, stopping in front of a cell. Holmes, Watson, and L stepped back to watch the proceedings.

"He's in here?" Robbins worried at his lip.

Lestrade nodded and knocked at the cell bars. "Hey, boy. We have a visitor for you."

"M'not…" A pale, dusty face appeared at the bars. "…A visitor?"

"Yes. Mr. Robbins."

A sharp glint entered the boy's eyes at the name as his hand fisted tightly. Then he relaxed. "Who?" he asked innocently.

Eyes narrowed, L watched Robbins. The tailor trembled slightly, and his face paled even further. "It's…him. It's him," he murmured brokenly. "Him. It's you..."

"It's him?" Watson burst out, stepping forwards eagerly. "He's man the one who killed your wife?"

"Shush, Watson," L muttered. "Be quiet and listen." He shifted position to get a better view, and bumped against Watson. "Oh…" he glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. "I apologize." Unseen, L's hand slipped into the biographer's pocket and pulled out an object, which he surreptitiously stuck in his pocket.

Robbins shook himself out of his reverie. "He…yes. I mean no. I…" He rocked back on his heels and shook his head. "Could you give me a moment…please? Alone?" His pleading eyes seemed haunted, enough to make Lestrade stop.

"Here? Alone?" the officer asked. "Are you sure?"

"I…yes."

Lestrade mulled over this and glanced at Holmes, who frowned but nodded. "Very well," he said, reluctantly turning for the door. "But we'll be just outside if you need us."

L idly fingered the object in his pocket as he passed the boy's cell. Suddenly he tripped, hands flying out to save himself from a painful tête-à-tête with the ground.

"Are you alright, L?" Watson asked worriedly.

"Fine," L said bluntly as they filed into the hallway.

"Are you sure? You look quite pale yourself," Watson said.

L shrugged, more intent on listening to what was happening in the room behind them.

"…_William…I'm sorry…_" Robbins' voice was pleading.

"_Ha! _You_, sorry?" _scoffedthe voice of the boy. L nibbled on his fingernail as he leaned back, concentrating.

"I'm sure," Holmes was saying, breaking his focus. "One of Mrs. Hudson's hearty meals would do us all good once this is over."

"Mrs. Hudson?" Lestrade questioned. "Your landlady, right?"

"Quiet!" L hissed.

Lestrade shot him a strange look, but fell silent. Voices trickled into the hallway.

"_It was all an accident! I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"_

"_Accident! Accident, you say!" _The boy's mocking laughter froze the air. _"You call killing my father an _accident_?"_

The guards glanced at the entrance of the room. Holmes met their eyes, and shook his head _no_. "Wait."

"_I didn't—"_

"_Yes you did! You'd gambled your life away, and came crawling to my father for more money! And when the time came when he asked for it back, you killed him. Don't even think 'bout denying it."_

Robbins' voice hardened. _"He was threatening me. He was going to tell everything—all __my debts, my gambling—to Jane! Dear, dear Jane, bless her soul. What would she have done is she'd known? She'd have turned me down for sure! He was threatening me, William, and he'd have gone through with it unless I paid!"_

"_And you didn't."_

"_I didn't have the money! All of it went to my debts, my marriage, to bringing bread to the table How was I supposed to have paid?"_

Lestrade cocked his head and stepped closer to the door. "The boy lied," he muttered angrily.

"They both did," Watson replied.

The boy's voice went strangely flat. _"So you killed him."_

"_I had to, I had to, can't you see?__ His eyes…his air was empty—cold and empty! He was going to ruin everything, unless I ruined him first."_

"_So you smashed his head in."_ The boy's voice was louder.

"_I'm sorry! I had to, there was no other choice!"_

"_No other choice."_

"_No, none at all! It took Jane and I five years to save up enough money for London, where I finally got a good job. We were happy here, for once! Please, please don't ruin it…"_

"_Ruin?" _the boy's voice changed again; it was thick now, rough. _"You speak about ruin, and poverty? __What about killing my father? What about my poor mother working herself into an early grave? What about my brothers and sisters, living on the streets with the rats? You speak of ruin. What about _me_?"_

Robbins' voice sounded muffled. _"I'm sorry…I'm sorry…"_

"_You speak of ruin, well, you'__ve ruined _my_ life! How do you think you should be repaid?"_

"_Enough! You've already taken Jane…"_

"_The woman…it was justice," _the boy said, almost singing._ "Such a lovely word don't you think? You ruin my life, I ruin yours. You kill my father, I kill your wife. You steal my future…I steal yours."_

"_But what else is there to take?"_

A long pause. L could almost hear the smile in the boy's voice. _"Your life."_

The sharp _snap _of a gun being cocked was deafening in the silence.

* * *

><p><em>Yeah. So. I have sort of a lovehate relationship with this chapter. It was nice to finally get past writer's block and type it out, but the characterization/overall writing has definitely suffered. But I needed to stop procrasinating so...here it is?_

_The end is near! There should be about two or three more chapters left, depending...hopefully they'll be up faster than this one has taken XP_

_Thanks for reading!_


	12. Chapter 11

Holmes was the first to react, pushing past the guards to dash into the room just as the first shot rang out. It sounded sharper and strangely hollow, and Watson wondered what kind of bullet the boy used—but now was definitely not the time to think of such things. Definitely not. He, Lestrade, the guards, and L quickly spilled into the room after Holmes.

He almost crashed into Holmes when the detective stopped suddenly. Of course. In the heat of the moment, they had forgotten that they were running into a room with a man with a gun who clearly had no scruples in using it. Watson felt Lestrade stiffen beside him, apparently coming to the same conclusion.

"Hey, bo—uh…William," Lestrade called out gently, as if placating a wild animal. He tensed, waiting for a retort—_'Don't call me that!'_ or _'I'm not a boy!'_—and grew even more worried when there was no answer. "Drop the gun. Please."

He and Holmes exchanged nervous glances and began to move closer to the cell.

Watson was more concerned about Robbins. The man was slumped in a boneless heap on the floor. There wasn't any blood—at least, none that he could see—but that meant nothing. The biographer clenched his hands, wishing he could walk over and help the man, but he didn't know how to do so without getting shot himself.

He stole a glance at the boy and wondered if he could risk it. He had to; he was a doctor—even with all his years in the war he couldn't bear to leave a hurt man alone—but that shot…not even the boy could miss at this distance. He imagined red splattered against the floor; ruined flesh; dull, empty eyes…

The boy didn't seem like he would notice, one way or another. He stared at the lowered gun in his hands as if he had no idea why his finger was curled around the trigger. His face was ashen under the dirt, and the revolver in his hands shook like a leaf even as it was pointed at the ground. Apart from his hands, the rest of his body was almost frighteningly still; he made no sign that he'd heard Lestrade's efforts at coaxing.

The boy didn't look like he could aim the gun, let alone shoot again. Watson gritted his teeth and took the chance.

As Watson moved closer, he saw that though Robbins was deathly pale, there was no sign of the blood or gore he'd feared. A strange hope crept through him and tightened around his throat. Carefully, Watson reached over and checked the man's pulse and breathing, even as Robbins began to stir.

Relief crashed over Watson in waves, and he couldn't quite hold back a small smile. The man was alive! The gun had fired a blank!

The smile slipped off his face as the implications of that struck him. Where had the boy gotten the gun in the first place? The Yard would never allow a criminal keep anything that could be used as a weapon—

"Watson," Holmes' voice was low.

Watson turned questioning eyes at the detective, who pointed at the revolver in the boy's hands. _What?_ He opened his mouth to ask, but his eyes caught sight of a long scratch down the barrel of the gun.

He'd seen that scratch before; had been holding the gun to knock away a drunken sailor's knife during one of Holmes' cases many months ago. And now, other details came out—the stain on the handle, the dent in the metal, the well-oiled finish…the revolver was an old but reliable model, familiar, one he'd taken to carrying on many a night before.

_L's hand slipped into the biographer's pocket_…

With a sinking heart Watson quickly checked his coat pockets. He came up with nothing. "_L!_"

* * *

><p>Watson, at least, had figured it out. The biographer's expression was pained underneath the anger, and in a moment of weakness, L wondered if stealing it had been worth it. Then reality reasserted itself and he forcibly pushed the thought out of his mind.<p>

Face impassive, L reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of metal. Six bullets dropped to the floor, glinting in the light. "Robbins was safe." _You wanted evidence, right?_ L almost said, but choked it back at the last moment.

Watson's eyes widened, almost comically. "Safe?" he exclaimed incredulously, gesturing at Robbins. "You call _this_ safe?"

As if on cue, Robbins groaned and stirred. Watson glared at L for another moment, then began attending to the man.

The tailor's eyes cracked open and he gazed around the room in confusion. His eyes fell upon the boy, and L could almost hear the _click_ as memories of recent events returned, with a vengeance. His hands began to shake, and his lips moved slightly. Watson frowned, and bent closer to listen.

_Sorry_, Robbins was saying. _Sorry._

"Officer Heyman," Lestrade suddenly snapped at the shorter of the two guards, startling everyone in the room, including the boy. "Do something useful and give Watson your flask." It must have come out harsher than he'd intended, because he softened his next words. "Don't think I haven't caught you drinking on the job."

"I…I won't do it again," the young officer promised sheepishly as he handed Watson a flask of brandy. His partner snorted something the sounded suspiciously like _that would be the day_.

Lestrade cracked a smile, which faded as he glanced at L.

L noticed, and said nothing. What could he say? Was it not enough that he'd taken out the bullets, ensuring that Robbins was not hurt? Robbins was not some innocent bystander. He was a murderer, as much a criminal as the boy—L could have easily left them in. Kira would have done so.

And that, more than anything else, was why L hadn't. Because if he allowed Robbins to be killed, how would the detective be any different from Kira? Limits—that was the difference between the two. There wasn't much L wouldn't do to solve a case, but when the time came he knew where to draw the line. Not Kira—Kira was the living embodiment of ends justifying the means.

_It's you. You're the killer_. That was what Robbins had said before attacking him. Oh, the irony.

Ironic…and not. Because the boy was the one shell-shocked in a cell, but Robbins was the one being tended to. And the other members of the group were still studiously avoiding L's gaze.

"What are you going to do?" L asked Holmes, gesturing at the tailor. "Robbins is your client, after all."

"He is," Holmes agreed. "…But I'll have Lestrade arrest him once he's well again. That fact that he killed the boy—_Will's_—father can't be dismissed." The boy flinched, almost imperceptibly. Lestrade noticed the flinch, as well as the revolver that was still clutched ominously between the boy's hands, and made his way towards the cell.

After a few moments, L realized that Holmes was staring at him, almost in consideration. As if the detective was seeing him under a completely different light, and not necessarily in a good way.

_Ridiculous_, L chastised himself. He must be losing his edge after these days in London. _What are you going to do?_ He wondered, this time asking himself. What _was_ he going to do? Now that the case was over and his back was well on its way to healing, Holmes and Watson had no reason to house him anymore. And L had no desire to go back onto the streets, even for another night.

"I suppose we should thank you," Holmes said, breaking into his thoughts. "You have solved the case, after everything." There was a wry slant to his mouth.

"Without using your strategies of deduction," L was quick to add.

"Oh, I wouldn't say _that_. You took Will's grudge, and his hastiness, and came to the conclusion that he would fire if he was given a gun."

"Mm."

Holmes grew serious again. "However clever, L, there were parts of your plan that wouldn't settle well with some of us." His eyes flickered to the two officers, and back. "I appreciate your help, and I'm sure Watson will as well once he's calmed down some. However, I realize you're trying to help, and I don't know how you deal with things wherever you came from, but—" He hesitated.

"'We don't that here.' That's what you were going to say, correct?" L finished. "You're mistaken—. I didn't do this for you, or Watson, or justice; I helped because I wanted to. Nothing else." He worried at his thumb. "You were correct in one aspect, at least. You _don't_ know how we deal with things where I came from. I'll tell you, though, that we don't do 'this' where I came from, either." L smirked. "You could say it's _my_ method of investigation."

"Well, your method is…" Holmes trailed off, attention drawn elsewhere. "Oh, for goodness sakes…"

L followed his gaze to where Lestrade was kneeling before the cell, trying to convince the boy to let go of the revolver. With little success.

"No!" the boy snarled, trying to pull away as Lestrade tugged futilely on the revolver. At least he wasn't shell-shocked anymore. "I found it—it's mine! It's justice!"

"What are you doing, Lestrade?" Holmes asked. "The revolver isn't loaded."

"The gun is a weapon," Lestrade muttered. "Come on, Will, be reasonable…"

"Don't call me that!"

"Please, just unhand the gun, and no one will be hurt…"

"No!" A strange light entered the boy's eyes. "'No one will be hurt', you said?" He glanced to the side where a still-pale Robbins was being tended to by Watson.

"Oh no…" Holmes murmured, moving to intercept the boy.

Lestrade must have noticed it at the same time, because he increased his efforts to retrieve the revolver. The boy growled and ripped it away, pulling back his arm and…

…_Threw_ the gun.

L supposed it was a good thing that the boy's gun-throwing skills were just as bad as his gun-shooting skills, but he was hard-pressed to find anything good in the situation as the revolver, flying end over end, struck his forehead with a solid _thunk_.

_Oh, Light is _never_ going to let me live this down._

Why was his vision so blurry? One hit to his head shouldn't be affecting him this badly, L though idly, swaying dangerously on his feet. He dimly registered Watson yelling—something about him being okay or not—and wondered why the biographer was caring so much. Watson was…he…didn't he?

_I'm all right_, L opened his mouth to snap before the world tilted crazily on its axis.

The boy was in his cell, yelling something at Robbins, whose mouth was still forming silent apologies. Lestrade stared at L questioningly as Holmes rushed at him and Watson was looking between Robbins and L and with a slightly panicked expression on his face.

_Watson worries too much_, was his last thought as the ground lifted up and he fell back, back into darkness.

* * *

><p>Nature has rules. Generally accepted constants that govern what should and what should not happen. Under 'what should happen' include generalities like breathing and the sun rising in the east, as well as smaller things such as Mrs. Hudson cooking delicious meals, creaky stairs, and Holmes solving mysteries. Under 'what should not be able to happen' include floating, time flowing backwards, dead coming back to life, and <em>people disappearing from right in front of you<em>.

Holmes stumbled to a halt, arms still outstretched. Hesitantly, he waved a hand in the space in front of him tensing, half-expecting to hit some sort of resistance. That didn't happen, however, and his hand passed easily through the air.

Uneasy silence fell upon them and teetered on a knifepoint. It seemed as if everyone—even Robbins—held their breaths, as if a single word would be all it took to send the world crashing around them.

Some things should not be able to happen.

Except they did. He did. L _disappeared_.

Of this, Watson was certain. He had been looking at the dark-haired man, trying to decide how badly the man was hurt and feeling reluctant to leave Robbins alone (now that the tailor had finally stopped chanting soundless apologies). The biographer may not agree with L's methods—may not agree with L in general—but he was loathe to leave any person in pain.

And then the man was falling, and Holmes was rushing forwards to catch him, and then he…vanished. No smoke, no light, no shimmery magic or however it was with these sorts of things. Just here one moment, and gone the next, as if he'd never existed in the first place.

* * *

><p>L woke to bright light and ceiling tiles. Groaning softly, he threw up an arm in an effort to block out some of the light. Every movement sent daggers into his head, and the ceiling swam disconcertingly in and out of focus.<p>

Why was he in bed? He hardly ever slept these days, too busy investigating the Yotsuba Corporation, and keeping an eye on Light and Misa, and finding the boy, and…

Oh, _damn_.

Memories flooded his mind, and L suppressed another groan. How were Holmes, Watson, and the rest of them going to deal with his sudden disappearance? More importantly, how was he going to explain his days-long absence to Watari? And he hated to think what the man would say if he saw what L did to his back…

His back. As his mind muddled through recent events and grew clearer, he became aware of a distinct lack of pain across his shoulder blades. Stiffness, definitely, but nothing else. On an impulse, L reached behind him, searching for a bumpy line of stitches and fully prepared to wince in pain. Instead, his fingers found a fine raised line, like an old scar.

And he was wearing his clothes. _His_ clothes, not the ill-fitting collared shirt and trousers Watson had lent him. What had happened while he was out?

L was just sitting up, when the door flew open and Watari bustled in. The old man's face lit up when he spotted L.

"You're up!" he exclaimed, acting surprisingly grandfatherly for once. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine," L found himself smiling. He hadn't realized how much he depended on Watari until he'd ended up two centuries in the past and half a world away.

Not even the world's top three detectives were immune against homesickness, it seemed. Something tight in his chest relaxed, and he felt as if he could breathe freely for the first time in days. Home was where the heart was, indeed.

"You worried us quite a bit you know."

L sighed. Here was the inevitable questioning. "I apologize. I'm here now."

Watari's expression softened for a moment before turning serious. "I'm afraid Light's unlocked his handcuffs. You'll be interested to know, though, that he's been acting as investigation leader in the half day you were out."

_What?_

"I've been out for half a day?" L asked sharply.

Watari nodded. "Don't worry—you haven't missed much. Ide found a few false leads, Matsuda knocked over the coffee maker, and Yagami has recently become engrossed with _Sherlock Holmes_, but that is all."

L nodded absently as he processed the information. He had only been gone for half a day? And knocked out, besides. Did that mean everything that had happened in the past few days—everything that he'd _thought_ had happened in the past few days—had it all been a dream?

_No_, L thought. He was certain that the scar hadn't been there before, even if he had no idea why the wound had healed over already, or why he was wearing his usual clothing, or anything else. Sighing, he rubbed his forehead.

Watari noticed, and immediately jumped into an all-too-familiar about the benefits of rest and the dangers of overwork. The old man never raised his voice, but he sure didn't need to.

L scowled, and held up his hands in defeat. "Very well, very well. I suppose I can spare some time for rest." He had many things he needed to think through anyway, and he wasn't sure he could deal with Light and the rest of investigation team just yet. He flopped back onto the bed and, very deliberately, turned away from Watari, completely missing the rare smile that graced the older man's face.

* * *

><p>On Baker Street, few things were as hotly discussed—and as often discussed—as the issue of organization. Holmes was a pack-rat of sorts, of the as-long-as-it's-not-rotting-or-releasing-noxious-fumes-into-the-room-then-what's-the-harm-in-keeping-it? variety. Watson, who knew first-hand of the benefits of organization on the battlefield, disagreed. Most of the time, the two struck a compromise.<p>

Neither of them knew what to do with L's things, however. The maid at Strattings' had identified the knife as one of their kitchen knives, and it had been returned (Lestrade had refused to take it for evidence, on the grounds that it was unless as the witness had—quite literally—disappeared). But the shirt and pair of jeans seemed almost tolerable once Mrs. Hudson had washed them, and it seemed like a waste to simply throw them out. And, though none of them would admit it, both harboured a small hope that the dark-haired man would return for them. Cold-hearted and eccentric he had been, he had still somehow managed to grow on them.

That hope faded a little each day, and when Holmes returned one day after Robbins' trial to find the clothing moved to the back of the storage cabinet, he didn't complain.

Wherever L was, he wasn't in London. They could only hope for his happiness.

* * *

><p><em>I've been on a sort of Avatar: the Last Airbender obsession for a while now, so if you begin to see any Iroh-traits in Watari, that's what I'm goign to blame -grins-<em>

_Only a short epilogue left to go!_


	13. Epilogue

"Are you alright, Yagami-san?"

Soichiro choked on his coffee, slamming the book shut. "Ah…no. I mean—yes. I'm alright. Everything's fine here, L."

L regarded him impassively over the open door of the fridge. "I see." He pulled out a plate of apple pie and cut himself a hefty wedge. "Reading _Sherlock Holmes _again?"

"It is a rather good book," Soichiro replied—perhaps a bit too defensively.

L nodded. "It is." He forked a large piece of pie into his mouth, frowning as he munched. "Mrs. Hudson's was better," he muttered to himself.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." A pause. "Which story are you at?"

"_The Hound of the Baskervilles_," Soichiro answered, sipping at his coffee and hoping L wouldn't catch the lie.

L, strangely, seemed to have frozen. "Ah," he murmured eventually. "That's a good one. Interesting, I mean."

Soichiro just nodded.

L wolfed down another piece of pie, and said, "When you are finished, Ide has found some files he wants you to go over."

"I'll be right out."

With a grunt of acknowledgement, L left the break room. Soichiro heaved a sigh of relief, and slumped down into his chair. He flipped the heavy book back open and stared at the page, as if through sheer willpower he could make the words more believable.

It didn't work.

_It was pouring rain in the streets that evening, and Holmes and I had long retired to the sitting room at our lodgings at Baker Street. It was the dreary sort of weather that promised nothing of interest, and even I was getting restless when a strange young man with a stranger name walking into the room. L, he called himself…_

* * *

><p><em>As promised, here's the short epilogue. I'll leave it up to you guys as to what L had learned, if he'd even learned anything at all ;)<em>

_Huge thanks go to all you readers and reviewers. Without you guys, this story probably wouldn't have been finished. So thank you, and happy holidays!_


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